


Oathkeeper

by Tokiosa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, F/M, Post-Finale, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 50,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokiosa/pseuds/Tokiosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both hostages of the Brave Companions and victims of fate, the maid and the Kingslayer grow closer than they care to notice. With a promise of sapphires he buys her a stay of execution; it is the first time Brienne sees Jaime, and not his epithet. She shows him honour, and he teaches her of madness, of Aerys; the old, the mad, the scab. Their paths seem inexorably twined as they march back to capital, freed once more to fulfill their oath - but it cannot last. News of the Red Wedding leaves Brienne adrift and Jaime surprised at his longing to comfort her. Once their arduous march south along the Kingsroad delivers them to King's Landing, Jaime struggles to resolve who he was with who he has become. Meanwhile, Brienne must face a harrowing accusation - the vilest of crimes that a knight could ever face - that of king slaying. (Canon divergent from the end of series 3 / ASOS book 1: Jaime & Brienne return before Joffrey's wedding. Book/show fusion, no spoilers - any later spoilers clearly marked in chapter warnings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Jaime**

Brienne had not said a word to him since he had warned her what was in store for her when they stopped to set up camp for the night. They were roped together on horseback, wrist and ankle, back to back, so tightly that Jaime's hands and feet had long since gone numb. At the sound of Jaime's voice, the mummer named Rorge had drawn close to them on his courser, looking them over suspiciously with his too-small black eyes. Jaime had gone silent then, allowing Brienne to think on what he had said, not wishing to give Rorge an excuse to engage with them. He hadn't said it to be cruel - it was simply true. The Bloody Mummers were going to rape her, there was no doubt about that. He wanted her to go to the place deep inside of her where her love of Renly lived and hide there - it was the only way, the only way she would survive it. If she fought them... Jaime didn't want to think about that, he wanted to doze. The wench's back against his was sturdy, and he leaned into her, feeling some relief in his lower back. Years of campaigns and months spent on the march had taught Jaime how to steal sleep in the saddle, but it was even easier with a steady surface to prop him up. Her warmth was pleasant, too.

He would coast the edge of unconsciousness, so near to rest, only to see Rorge's noseless face leering. Or Zollo, his teeth exposed in a lascvicious grin as saliva ran down his ample chins. Or any of the other bloody mummers, their faces hideous and contorted with stolen pleasure. He didn't want to think about it, but he couldn't help it.  _I've tried to help and she doesn't listen. There's nothing else to be done._

Jaime was uneasy, and his unease grew with the darkening of the sky. If Brienne was worried, she did not share her concerns with him. She had said nothing to him still.  _Hard-headed wench thinks I was trying to frighten her,_  he thought. She was so naive. As irritating as it was, it was almost enviable. Brienne's world was not the grey, stark reality Jaime lived in. To her, there was a clear divide between good and evil, honor and dishonor. This Bloody Mummers would change her tonight when they took their turns fucking her - she wouldn't be the same after it, but the deeper inside of herself she managed to go for the duration, the more of herself she would save.

"Brienne," he whispered. He hadn't called her  _wench_ , and she turned her head after that sank in. He couldn't see her face when they were bound like that, but he knew she was listening to him. Before he could find a way to put it into words she would take as true, Rorge backhanded him hard across the face. The time had come to set up camp for the night.

* * *

**Brienne**

Brienne had thought on what Jaime had said for only a moment. She would not do as he advised - even he himself had said if he were a woman, he would make them kill him. She would fight them until her last, they would gain no pleasure from her. When they had stopped to break for the night she had been cut from the Kingslayer and roped to a sentinel tree. He was tied to another, some distance away across the campsite. After a while they were given food. Thin onion broth and a crust of hard bread. Brienne had no appetite and managed only a few mouthfuls. She was thinking of the Stark girls, Arya and Sansa. Of how Lady Catelyn had put all of her hope in Brienne, and how she had failed. Just as she had failed to protect Renly, her king.

It wasn't long before they came for her. Rorge, fat Zollo and Shagwell. She thought she had prepared herself, but when they approached, a bolt of fear struck her. Her heart pounded and she pulled hard on the ropes that bound her. For a moment all they did was leer hungrily, arguing over who would go first, and where. She could feel the Kingslayer's eyes on her as well, and for some reason it was worse that he would see what they were going to do to her.  _Try to do to her_ , she corrected, because she wasn't going to let them enjoy whatever they had planned.

Rorge crouched down in front of her, his small brown teeth glistening from the light of the campfire flames as he peeled back his lips in a grin. His voice was slobbery and nasal thanks to his missing nose. "We're going to fuck you bloody, and then, we're going to fuck you again."

Brienne pulled hard on her restraints, her jaw clenched furiously. Rorge pulled at her chest, pinching her breast hard enough to make her shout out despite herself. He cackled at that. "She has got tits after all, somewhere under there."

"Cut it off, let's have a look," Shagwell crowed. Rorge tore at her clothes, and Brienne writhed, struggling to bring her knees up to catch him in the chest when he leaned over her.

"Ah ah," Fat Zollo chided, forcing her legs apart and resting his massive weight on them to keep her pinned. Shagwell was yanking her breeches while Rorge shoved her tunic up with one hand and unlaced himself with the other. Brienne could smell his sour breath. She twisted and writhed and they laughed, spurred on by the fight in her. She was pulling so fiercely on the ropes that bound her then that she was sure she would dislocate her shoulders soon. Shagwell had almost forced her breeches down and she thrashed wildly, her eyes wide, every inch of her the animal caught in a trap.

"Stop," a thin yet stern voice commanded. An instant later, the weight had lifted from Brienne's legs and she raised her knees to smash Rorge in the groin. He doubled over, gasping for breath before he vomited from the agony. Shagwell retreated out of range of her kicks. "Lady Brienne of Tarth, from the Isle of Sapphires, is worth far more untouched," Vargo Hoat stood over them with his dagger drawn. He had pushed Zollo from her, and the fat Dothraki had slunk away, sulking. Brienne was too agitated for his words to sink in, all she knew was that they were no longer forcing themselves upon her. Her heart still raced. "Sapphires," Hoat repeated at his three men. Rorge still lay winded in the undergrowth, groaning softly.

Some time later, she looked over to the Kingslayer. He sensed her eyes on him and met her gaze.  _He stopped them somehow_ , she realised.  _But why?_

There was nothing she could do for him, though, no bargain she could strike, when his time came. She could not hear their converation, but she saw well enough how fat Zollo drew his arakh and how Jaime's arm was forced down onto a block. She shouted for them to stop. The arakh flashed silver as Zollo drew it up above his head, and Brienne knew when it had landed. Jaime  _screamed_. The scream was cut abruptly short when the Kingslayer passed out. She heard the hiss of metal cauterizing the wound shut an instant later, sickened to realise that they had all done this before many times.

She slept in stolen moments that night, and awoke feeling worse than if she hadn't slept at all. The sky was still a deep velvety purple in the west, but had grown pink in the east. In the grey dawn light, she searched the campsite for the Kingslayer. He was slumped against a tree, his face turned away so she could not see if he slept or not. Little was said as the group readied for another day of travel. She and Jaime shared the same horse again, as they only had one to spare. They were bound facing each other this time, to the sniggering amusement of the Bloody Mummers. Jaime's eyes stared for a thousand leagues, seeing nothing of what was before him.  _He's gone to that place inside him_ , Brienne realised.  _The place he told me to go._  She wondered when he would resurface.

He slipped in and out of consciousness that day, and she had to steady him in the saddle many a time. Eventually she simply left her arms about his waist to keep him anchored. He slumped against her, his forehead resting on her shoulder, and Brienne felt a surge of protectiveness. She had been thinking for hours about what he had done to prevent them from raping her. He didn't have to do that. Indeed, she never expected him to. Slowly Brienne was realsing that there was more to the Kingslayer than she had first thought. His severed hand tied about his neck dangled between them, swaying.

"Water," Jaime croaked, about five hours into the day's ride. He lifted his head, his green eyes struggling to focus on Brienne's face. It was devoid of the arrogance Brienne had previously thought was perpetual. She felt like she was seeing him naked.

"He needs water," Brienne called out.

"He can kiss my arse," one of the Mummers called back.

"He needs water, or he'll die. He has lost a lot of blood-" Brienne argued, stopping abruptly as Vargo Hoat thrust a canteen of water between them. Jaime forgot that they had taken his hand. Brienne winced as he banged his stump against the container. A flash of agony crossed Jaime's eyes before an instant later he slumped against her, unconscious.

When he came round again, Brienne lifted the open container to his lips and helped him to drink. His adam's apple slid up and down, rivulets of water running down his chin and throat as he drank thirstily. Afterwards, he rested again.  _Water_. That was the only thing he said all day.

The next day proved much the same. The day after, a fever was in him. His skin was searingly hot when his face pressed against her neck, and his body radiated a sickly heat.  _He's dying_ , she thought, when he began to weep. His eyes did not see the present, he did not react when the Mummers noticed his tears and hooted and laughed. He was deep in the clutches of fever dreams, seeing another time and another place. Brienne coaxed him to drink and pressed a cold, damp scrap of cloth to his burning skin. She kept him alive, just as he had kept her alive when Rorge, fat Zollo and Shagwell had tried to rape her. For days, she washed him and cleaned his wounds, doing her best with what was available to try to stave off infection. The Mummers taunted him, asked him questions about Cersei's cunt, slapped him and crowed about his maimed hand. Jaime's indifference bored them, and by the time Harrenhal was on the horizon they had grown tired of taunting him.

Brienne had tried to protest when Vargo Hoat cut the ropes that bound Jaime to her and forced him to walk behind the mounts, but Hoat had paid no mind to her. Jaime stumbled and gritted his teeth against the pain he was in, but he did not fall. Hoat wanted Jaime to be a spectacle as he was dragged through the gates of Harrenhal. Brienne could do nothing but watch, and silently will him to stay on his feet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Brienne**

Brienne wished that they had allowed her to continue wearing her armour, though she consented that it did indeed need an armourer's attention. She would have appreciated men's clothing much more than the flowing pink garments she was given to wear. The dress was intended for a much more femininely-proportioned woman, far too generous in the bosom and too revealing of her broad shoulders. She stared at it with disdain - the whole bedchamber,in fact, repulsed her. It had been prepared in expectation of some Lady or other, she guessed from the trinkets and accessories on the dresser, the deep pink drapes and the plush spread of over-stuffed goose-down pillows on the bed. Even the smell of it was sickly-sweet from the rushes scattered on the ground. She searched through the drawers in vain, knowing that there would be nothing but despairing enough to look. Just a few blouses made for a woman half her size, and a dark red robe.

"Enter," Brienne barked in response to a meek knocking at the bedchamber door. A maid curtseyed and avoided Brienne's eye as she asked her if there was anything she might bring to make her more comfortable.

"A tunic and breeches," Brienne replied without pause.

"Milady, Lord Bolton wishes you and Ser Jaime attend him at supper tonight-" the girl began mildly.

"Yes and I'll wear the bloody dress  _then_ ," Brienne snapped. The maid gave profuse apologies and seemed to wither away into the background, saying she would see what she could find to accomodate her. Brienne donned the robe and headed down to the baths, eager to wash the past weeks spent on the road from her skin.

The air in the bath-house was thick and full of steam rising from the deep rectangles carved into the stone beneath her feet. Flow from the natural hotsprings had been routed to ensure that the baths were always supplied with hot water. As Brienne slid into the tub she gritted her teeth, her pale freckled skin quickly reddening where the water touched. It was indeed hot, bordering on painfully so, but she found it pleasant. It helped her to feel clean again. As she scrubbed away the layers of dirt and sweat and grime that had built up on her skin, she began to feel more clear of mind too.

She knew she would have chance to speak to Lord Bolton soon, but doubted that he would be easily convinced to allow her to leave with the Kingslayer to continue the journey to King's Landing. He was Robb's, and the King in the North had not given permission for the exchange of hostages. It was Lady Catelyn that Brienne served, and she had made an oath to bring Winterfell's daughters home. It might be necessary to slip out of the castle by night... Though she knew that within the hour of their escape, Bolton would have sent out half a hundred men in every direction of the castle to track them down. On top of that, the autumn rains had been relentless, and the trident was surely flooded from the unending downpour.

Brienne had been so lost in thought that Jaime's arrival had gone unnoticed, and he startled her badly. He looked pale beneath the filth that caked his skin. He was long overdue a bath. She realised it would be his first since his capture, over half a year ago. She was embarrassed when he chose  _her_  bath to get into, and reminded him sharply that there were others he could take his pick from.

"This one suits me fine," he replied, smirking. Brienne averted her eyes, wondering if he had any shame at all. Then she thought of Robert Baratheon's golden-haired children and felt vaguely sick.  _Of course not_.

Brienne said nothing to him and continued to wash herself, enjoying the heat considerably less since he had joined her.

"If I faint, pull me out. I don't intend to be the first Lannister who died in the bath,"

"Why should I care how you die?" Brienne answered tartly.

She glanced up at him briefly and took in his appearance; he looked weak, and he was so lean now that she could see his ribs. There was a fresh bandage on his stump, and Brienne felt pity at the sight of it poking up above the surface of the water. She was a warrior, as he was. The thought of being crippled in such a way was unbearable. He must have sensed her pity and did not like the taste of it.

"You swore a solemn oath, remember? You're to get me to King's Landing in once piece. Not going so well, is it? No wonder Renly died, with you guarding him," he said bitterly. It cut her to be reminded of Renly, of her deepest failure. She lunged towards him, the water cascading from her body as she rose, and her eyes bright with fury. Jaime could not hold her gaze, and she felt heat rise to her face as his eyes were drawn to her nakedness. But she did not back down.

"That was unworthy. Forgive me. You've protected me better than most-"

"Don't you mock me," Brienne warned. Men always mocked her, but she would not take it, not now. Not after everything. And not from a man like him.

"I'm apologizing. I'm tired of fighting," Jaime sighed, "let's have a truce."

She searched his eyes, looking for a trick, for the angle he was trying to play, "you need trust to have a truce."

"I trust you," he replied. It hung between them, heavy when she did not respond. What was his trust worth to her? She sneered.

"There it is. There's the look. For seventeen years, on every face.  _Kingslayer. Oathbreaker,_ "

Brienne suspected it was the heat of the water or exhaustion, probably both, that coaxed the tale from Jaime of the day that, aged 17 years, he killed King Aerys II Targaryen. She listened, at first suspicious of what he said. The casks of wildfire beneath every part of the city - the mad king's orders to ignite them should the gates be breached... It left a bad taste in her mouth, and she found herself feeling deeply sorry for Jaime. She could not grasp why he had not told the truth to Eddard Stark. Stark's honour was well-known, even all those years ago. It was an easily verified claim. She supposed it was not in his character to justify his behaviour though.

"By what right does the wolf judge the lion?  _By what right_?"

Brienne knew what was happening before Jaime did. His strength suddenly gone from him, he fell into a faint. Brienne caught him before his head could go beneath the water, and pulled his body to her chest. He was not heavy, at least not to her, and she lifted him out without difficulty. For a panicked moment she thought he had died, but his eyes still moved and he still dragged in ragged breath. She shouted for help, and though it only took seconds for a servant or guard to appear, it felt to her like so much longer. 

_Jaime_ , he murmured,  _my_ name _is Jaime._


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

**Jaime**

The sky was pink and bruised with grey when Jaime awoke. His mouth was dry and his head throbbed, leading him to believe he had slept for a long time. For a blissful moment he thought he was home, at Casterly rock. It had been such a long time since he had slept in a soft bed with thick quilts and pillows. He remembered Brienne, hard and strong and yet somehow so gentle as she cradled him. She had seen the worst of him and still stood beside him. Was it only her oath? Jaime did not know. Without consulting his conscious mind, his cock had stiffened. He swore and ignored it, wondering if it had really been so long since he had seen a pair of tits that even Brienne the Beauty was turning him on.

He padded naked to the window and gazed out, determining from the glow on the eastern horizon that it was just before dawn. He had slept for more than ten hours. The rest had been much needed, and Jaime felt stronger than he had done since Vargo Hoat had robbed him of his hand.

It was still early enough to see the Ice Dragon in the sky, the bright star of his tail a gem that guided him south. Whenever he had been apart from Cersei, he had gazed up at the constellations and felt some small comfort in knowing that wherever she was, she had the same stars above her. Unbidden, his mind turned to Brienne once again, and he wondered where she was. They hadn't been apart for weeks - he thought he would have been glad of the respite, but she was not poor company if truth be told. A poor conversationalist, but out of necessity their silences had become more companionable than unbearable. She was practical and forthright, two qualities that he had never encountered in a woman before. He wasn't convinced yet that those qualities balanced out her masculinity and ugliness, which she also had in abundance - though his cock didn't seem to mind. He thought of Cersei again, the beautiful and ruthless other half of himself. He wondered what she was doing now, if word of his escape from Riverrun had reached the red keep. More likely the Northmen had sought to keep it quiet, but the information was too valuable not to have found its way to some little bird or other.

The sun was bloody as it rose in the east, and Jaime watched it climb above the horizon steadily. The courtyard below was already alive with the sound of horse-hooves and the ringing of the smithy hammers. The sounds reminded him of home.

It took him a long time to dress himself, struggling to tackle laces and fastenings with only one hand. The tranquility he had found from watching the day break had entirely evaporated by the time he was heading down to breakfast. He could have called a servant to aid him but the shame was too great - formerly the finest warrior in the Kingsguard, now unable to even dress himself. He would learn how to do it, just as he had learned as a boy how to balance a blade and fell an opponent. It could all be learned again, he reminded himself, keen for hope to wash away the taste of the bitterness that had roiled so caustically within him. It was further injury to see the Brave Companions dining at the same breakfast table he was expected to take seat at when he entered the dining hall. They hadn't noticed him yet, halted in the entryway and unsure of what to do.  _If I had my bloody hand_ , Jaime started, but forced himself not to finish. It was useless to think that way, and he grew tired of the same circular thoughts.  _It's gone. So you'll have to think like Tyrion for once._

"Ser Jaime," Brienne's voice interrupted his musings. He turned and saw her in the corridor behind him.  _Ser now, is it?_  He smiled warmly at her, pleased when she blushed. He hadn't expected her to - it was a look more befitting a maid like Sansa Stark. Though he supposed Brienne was still a maid too, and perhaps all maids blushed alike.

"That lot have been feasting since dawn, you can join me in the kitchens if you'd like," her tone was so curt, it hardly fit the words she'd said. He followed her nonetheless, and took a seat at a small table in a room adjacent to the kitchens where she had already begun her breakfast. A serving girl curtseyed him and bade him good morning before setting a platter of breads and cheeses down beside the jugs of milk and bowls of fruit.

It was a great sleight for a Northman to neglect to be hospitable to his guests, and Jaime was irked at the insult of being relegated to the scullery while the Bloody Mummers dined in the main hall. He did not yet know what Bolton planned to do with him, but suspected this was a cool reminder to Jaime that he was not yet back where the name Lannister afforded great hospitality. Jaime filled a horn with cold water and drank deep.

"Thank you for not letting me drown," he said after slaking his thirst.

"I said I would protect you," Brienne replied instantly, her roughness so at odds with how gently she had lifted him from the bath tub the night before.

"Swore an oath, I believe," he tried to provoke that blushing maid look again by giving her another of his smiles, but she just glared at him and continued eating. He wondered if he had imagined it the first time around.

"To get you to King's Landing and-"

"And to my brother Tyrion in exchange for Lady Catelyn's daughters, yes yes, I've been told," Jaime sighed, rolling his eyes. She could be so tedious at times, he thought, chasing a boiled egg around his plate with his fork. He dropped the utensil in the end and grabbed it with his fingers, manners be damned.

"You made us miss supper last night. They had the maester check on you, you couldn't be roused," Brienne informed him. The maester she spoke of, Qyburn, had been the one to pare away the rotten flesh from his stump and cleanse the wound with boiling wine. The memory gave a flare of remembered pain.

"I needed the rest," Jaime replied, "I'm sure Lord Bolton will find time to sup us again."

"He wants to see us this evening. Until then we should find my armour and get you some. And I want my sword back,"

Jaime studied her, noting the determined set of her features and the stubborn glint in her eyes.

"Planning on needing it?" he asked teasingly.

"It seems unlikely Lord Bolton will be content to release us so that I can fulfill my oath. We might-"

Jaime gave a meaningful sideways look to the serving girl who had gone back to scurrying about the kitchen but still remained within earshot, and not far from her stood a baker kneading handfuls of dough, not to mention the various other kitchen wenches and servants that came in and out fetching and returning plates. It was not safe to speak freely here. Brienne took his meaning and fell silent.

For the rest of the morning, Jaime found nothing more compelling to do than follow Brienne on her errands and make dry remarks. It gave him chance to note that the Northmen were not well supplied, and that they appeared to be packing up what little they had. He wasn't surprised - it took a great host of men to hold a place like the Harrenhal. It sprawled out across the land, vast and decaying, a sorry state considering the glory it had once been to behold. He thought it was fitting that the largest castle in the realm was this - twisted and crippled by dragon's breath, crumbling and ruinous. They were being observed closely by Bolton's men, Jaime knew. He didn't think Brienne was foolish enough not to have known that either. They only had the illusion of freedom. The grounds were too large for the men Bolton had though, and it wasn't far-fetched to think that they might be able to find and exploit a blind spot. That sort of thing would normally take days to observe patrols, unless he could find someone to bribe with promised reward. He was not sure that would even be a necessity though, as it dawned on him why the Northmen were packing up from overheard banter in the smithy. Talk of  _the king who lost the North_ , and some great insult King Robb had made to the old pervert Walder Frey reached Jaime's ears. The men's morale was low, perhaps low enough to be mutinous.

He knew from his own experience in charge of men and from his father's lessons in command that as soon as the first men broke rank and ran, the battle was lost. This was much the same - if these men would not muster fight against the Southern forces, it did not bode well for Robb Stark's campaign.

* * *

 

**Brienne**

The time soon came to part ways with Jaime and prepare for dinner with Lord Bolton. Brienne had managed to find her armour in the smithy, pleased to see it had been sufficiently repaired. They had refused to allow her to sign it out, though, telling her that she had to have Lord Bolton's permission to take anything from the armoury. She had sworn at that, but the apprentices had refused to hear any quarrel. It would have been most welcome if Jaime could have used some of his charm and persuasiveness to aid her cause, but he had barely said a word there. She only realised in hindsight that the sight of weapons he would never again wield probably wounded him.

She felt horrendously self-conscious once she had put on the borrowed pink dress. It accentuated her lack of femininity, it made her feel as though she was wearing a skin that was not her own. She waited in her bedchamber and hoped that he would go without her to dine with Lord Bolton. She knew better than to refuse the invitation or wear the men's clothes that had appeared in her chambers after she had returned from her bath. It would not have taken much more than a cruel jibe for Brienne to lose her temper with Jaime, and she felt almost anxious when the knock at her door finally came.

Brienne could feel the heat on her face as she opened the door, hating that her awkwardness was so visible. She only felt vulnerable like this; being forced into the role of the noble Lady. To his credit, Jaime did not mock her.

"My Lady,"

She met his gaze for the briefest of seconds, and she could see very clearly that he had a litany of snide observations he could make if he so chose to. She would have preferred an insult to a false compliment, though, and was greatly relieved that he gave her neither. He offered her his good arm and she took it stiffly. They walked in silence to the dining hall that Lord Bolton awaited them in, and by the time they arrived Brienne's blush had cooled slightly.

Brienne said little at the table, her confidence stricken by the ridiculous garments she wore and the character they forced her into. Lord Bolton had made it immediately clear that he cared little for what she had to say.

"You are a Stark bannerman, Lord Bolton. I am acting on Lady Catelyn's orders to return Jaime Lannister to King's Landing-"

"When King Robb left Harrenhal, Lady Stark was his prisoner. If she wasn't his mother, he would have hanged her for treason."

Jaime struggled one-handed to cut his meat, his plate wobbling noisily. Brienne stabbed the slice of meat on his plate, only half in irritation. He was so confident, even now - where he should have felt humiliation, he simply met everything else with mockery. She supposed it had been the only mechanism of defense against seventeen years of belittling and scorn. She envied him, because in that they were the same. Scorn and derision, being a woman of her size and talents, she knew them both well.

"I should send you back to Robb Stark," Lord Bolton said.

Jamie studied the morsel of meat he had managed to spear with Brienne's help as he answered, "You should. And yet you sit here, watching me fail at dinner. Why might that be?"

"Wars cost money. Many people would pay a great deal for you."

"We both know who would pay the most," Jaime replied, "and who would make you pay the most when he found out you had me here but sent me back up north for a summary execution."

"You're right. Perhaps the safest thing to do is to kill you both and burn your bodies."

Brienne's fingers curled tight around her knife, hearing only the threat. Jaime's hand covered hers and squeezed gently in response, discouraging her from reaching across the table and opening Bolton's throat with it. She was not as perceptive as Jaime was when it came to politics, but she knew she would have Bolton mortally wounded before he could shout out to his guards.  _Then what_? _Cut down the guards as well, with a steak knife_? Jaime had the right of it, so Brienne backed down. She could not follow the thread of exactly how their conversation had turned to this, but she recognized that Lord Bolton was asking a favour of Jaime.  _Turncloak_ , she almost said, her rage waking. He called it treason that she followed Lady Catelyn's orders, and yet he was ready to take his men and desert. Brienne gritted her teeth.

"As soon as you are well enough to travel, I will allow you to leave for King's Landing, as restitution for the mistakes my soldiers made," Bolton conceded, each word carefully weighed, "and you will swear to tell your father the truth: that I had nothing to do with your maiming."

Jaime poured her wine first, and then his own, suggesting that they toast to continuing their journey without further incident. She was surprised when Lord Bolton corrected Jaime, telling him that she would not be accompanying him further. She thought of the false promise Jaime had made to Vargo Hoat about sapphires, and all at once realised that Bolton would be meaning to use her to appease his men.

"I am charged with taking Ser Jaime to-"

"You are charged with treason, my lady," Bolton interrupted her scornfully.

"I'm afraid I must insist," Jaime said, his tone still velvety with self-assurance. Brienne ignored the girlish way her stomach fluttered when he said that, unable to stop her surprise from showing. She did not have time to muse on why he could possibly be concerned for her.

"I would have hoped you would have learned your lesson about overplaying your...  _position_ ," Bolton's refusal was firm, and the atmosphere in the room was suddenly icy.

Jaime said the formalities for both of them and offered her his arm, to escort her back to her chambers. Once they were down the hallway and well out of Lord Bolton's earshot, Brienne wrenched her arm back and lengthened her strides, easily getting ahead of Jaime. She had no wish to speak to him, feeling absurdly betrayed by his silent acquiescence to Bolton's plans to keep her. It had surprised her that he had even argued at all, and yet still she was wounded. She knew where they kept her armour, and she would retrieve it tonight. Harrenhal's five great towers could hardly be kept covered by the relatively small force that Lord Bolton possessed, she thought she stood a reasonable chance of escape. She had been planning for this eventuality, although admittedly in her plans, Jaime was at her side, not granted free passage while she was left as a plaything for the Brave Companions.

"Brienne?" Jaime called, bemusement in his voice. He followed her instead of taking the corridor to ascend to his chambers; she could still hear his footfalls echoing behind her.

She flung her bedchamber door open, but before she could slam it shut behind her he was through the threshold, with a look in his eyes that stopped her from punching him - but only just.

"What are you doing in here? Get out!"

"Brienne -" he started, but under the intensity of her glare all of his loquacity melted away. He just looked at her, with an expression halfway between sad and defiant.  _I'm not going to leave you_. she thought without meaning to. That was what she wanted him to say.  _I won't abandon you here._  And in his own way, perhaps he did say it. He reached out his hand and cupped her cheek softly, with a confidence that would have suggested to a casual observer that he did it all the time. Brienne felt herself blushing again but fiercely held his gaze. She did not understand what she felt for this man; once it had been so easy to identify, but somehow contempt had given way to a grudging respect, and now... She was not blind, beneath his arrogance he was beautiful, and in glimpses she had seen a soul not so different from her own. She hated to be made to feel vulnerable, and he was doing that so effortlessly with his casual little touches and disarming smiles. Brienne would not be made to feel the lamb before the lion. Jaime had tilted his head slightly, and his mouth had inched closer to hers, so close she could feel his breath on her lips. Brienne reddened impossibly further when she realised he meant to kiss her, when she realised that she actually  _wanted_ him to, in that moment, disconnected from their circumstances and their opposite loyalties, she really couldn't think of anything sweeter. The self-preservation instincts that had served her so well over the years kicked in at last, and she reacted the only way she knew would keep her from vulnerability - she pushed him. Hard. In fact, he should have considered himself lucky she didn't smash her fist into his handsome face.

His eyes flew open wide, confusion and regret quickly apparent. It was a testament to his agility that he hadn't been knocked off of his feet with the force she had pushed him away from her.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, but it isn't amusing," Brienne told him sharply. From the look on his face, he didn't know what he thought he was doing either. He didn't blush - she was blushing enough for the pair of them really - but he did look as though his composure had taken a battering.

"I... Goodnight, Lady Brienne," Jaime said eventually, before he turned on his heel and left. Brienne was glad to be alone, glad to take off the stupid pink dress, and glad she had not allowed herself to be kissed by him. At least, she told herself she was. It was easier that way.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Jaime**

He didn't recall the walk back to his chambers, lost as he was in thoughts.  _Did I really try to_...? Jaime shook his head, baffled. He had not  _intended_ anything at all, his actions had simply happened without any conscious thought process leading up to them. Tyrion would have laughed himself stupid - his younger brother was always reminding him that a modicum of impulse control would save him a world of pain.  _I have just been too long without a woman,_  Jaime told himself. It sounded convincing enough, if he kept repeating it to himself. He undressed clumsily and crawled beneath the sheets, resting his forearm over his eyes. His phantom hand tingled, but the pain wasn't so bad as to be unbearable. The dull throb helped him to pace his thoughts somewhat, and it wasn't long before his eyelids became heavy and sleep claimed him.

It was near pitch dark when he awoke, and he deduced it was deep into the night. For a few long moments, he did not know what had woken him. The room was lit dimly by the glow of the half-moon, and a woman slid from the shadows by the door to reveal herself to him. Jaime rubbed his eyes blearily, his first though of Cersei, until he realised where he was. _Brienne_? He almost said the name aloud before his sleep-clouded mind could intervene. The woman was much too petite to be Brienne of Tarth.

"Who are you?" he asked, pushing himself up onto his elbow and narrowing his eyes at her. She was a pretty little thing, naked as her nameday, with big doe-like eyes that had a dreamy look in them.

"My name's Pia, milord. I'm here to make you feel better," she replied, her voice sweet. Jaime's body had already begun to respond to her. He twisted his fingers in the sheets and pulled them to better cover himself. Undeterred, the woman climbed into bed beside him with a coy smile on her lips.

"Pia?" Jaime repeated, wondering if it was possible that he hadn't actually woken up at all. She took his hand and placed it on her breast, letting out a quiet sigh.

"That's right milord. I was only a slip of a girl when you came for Lord Whent's tourney and the king gave you your cloak," she confessed. "You were so handsome all in white, and everyone said what a brave knight you were. Sometimes, when I'm with some man, I pretend it's you on top of me... I never dreamed I'd truly have you though."

Jaime bristled as an inquisitive hand brushed against his thigh beneath the sheets. He took his hand from her breast and trapped her wrist before she could explore any further.  _Gods what's wrong with me_ , he wondered fleetingly,  _if I don't really want to fuck her that must mean I did really want to kiss Brienne._  Pia was looking at him vacantly, her fingers moving back and forth just inches away from where he would have quite enjoyed them to be.

Jaime smiled a strained, polite smile, and shook his head ever so slightly. "You are indeed very comely, Pia, but I am afraid I am in no fit state-"

She had more hands than him, and she took great advantage of his handicap by sliding her second hand up and under the sheets to squeeze him playfully. Jaime inhaled sharply through his gritted teeth, and part of him wanted to laugh at this new unforseen consequence of being one-handed. Struggling to fend off amorous wenches.

"You  _do_  want to," Pia replied, pouting.  _But it isn't you I want,_  Jaime thought. It was Cersei, he told himself, though it was Brienne's face that came to him as he thought it. If he considered it, pushing away thoughts of a woman he wasn't related to in order to convince himself he still wanted to bed his own sister probably wasn't healthy. If he considered it.

It took every ounce of restraint Jaime had to grab both of Pia's wrists with his hand and push her up and out of the bed. He scooped to pick up her clothes with a hand he didn't have, and muttered a curse under his breath when he remembered it. Pia took the hint and picked up her own clothes, shooting him a sad look.

"Whoever she is, she's lucky, milord," Pia told him before standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. Jaime gave her that same uncomfortable smile and watched her slip out of his room. He sighed and got back into bed, unable to get Brienne out of his head once more.  _When you're fit enough to travel_ , Lord Bolton had said. Jaime knew from what he had seen of the wagons being packed in the courtyards that Bolton had no intention of remaining at Harrenhal much longer than necessary.  _And what happens to her then? Left to the Brave Companions_ , Jaime felt queasy. He pushed it from his mind and vowed to have Qyburn send Lord Selwyn Tarth a bird to inform him of his daughter's fate. A decent ransom could still buy her life.

* * *

 

He did not see Brienne at breakfast that morning, nor did she appear at lunch. By evenfall, Jaime was willing to admit to himself that he was concerned. He had asked Qyburn to send word to Tarth and the disgraced maester had obliged him without question, for which he was glad. Jaime wondered if it was because he had...  _What? Made unwanted advances?_  He didn't know what to call it, but he knew she had been uncomfortable at the intrusion into her space. He poked unenthusiastically at dinner - mutton stew and black bread - eating meagrely until he could bear no more. He spooned a fresh bowl and pocketed a crust of bread, intent upon taking it to Brienne lest he begin to feel guilty that she was too nervous of being accosted by him to even leave her bedchamber.

He knocked, which wasn't easy with a bowl of stew in his only hand, but there was no answer.

"Brienne?" he called, but there was no reply. He waited a few moments and then opened the door, "Brienne?"

She was gone. The pink dress lay in a crumpled pile by the foot of the bed, the only evidence that she had been there at all.

Jaime's first thought was that she had escaped in the night, and he kicked himself for potentially risking an early discovery of her absence, but a chambermaid appeared in the corridor behind him and quickly dashed his hopes.

"The Lady Brienne has been moved to different quarters, milord," she told him courteously.

"Moved? Moved where?" Jaime demanded, his brows furrowed.

"I shouldn't really say, milord. Lord Bolton says you're to be kept apart," she sounded genuinely apologetic, but then to have survived as a chamber maid at the Dreadfort feigning sincerity was a necessity.

It didn't really matter, Jaime realised. Whether he knew where she was or not, he would never be able to reach her. Shoulders slumped in defeat, he walked from the room, handing the woman the bowl and bread as he went.

It was the third day after he last saw her when Qyburn came to his chambers at midnight.

"We leave for the south at dawn, Ser," the maester told him. Jaime gave him his thanks and the older man turned to leave. The words left his mouth before Jaime even realised he was going to say them;

"Can I say goodbye to her?"

Qyburn gave him a curious look and Jaime interpreted it as confusion.

"The Lady Brienne," he clarified, "I wish to see her before I leave."

Qyburn considered him a moment and then nodded, motioning for Jaime to follow him. Two of Bolton's guardsmen joined them in an escort as they exited into the courtyard. Jaime's face darkened as Qyburn led the way to the Widow's Tower. It was a place suited to prisoners and deviants, not guests. It was only small relief to him that they had not stuffed her down in the dungeons but instead locked her in a ruinous room near the top of the tower. The bricks were blackened and uneven throughout, burned so long ago by a fire so hot that it had made the stone run like melted candlewax. Qyburn unlocked the door to her chamber with a small brass key, and waited outside as Jaime entered.

The room was cold, lit only by a small iron brazier whose warmth was snatched away by the winds that roared and groaned their way through the tower. Brienne's eyes, so big and blue, were bright with emotion and she took in the sight of him. He had expected her fury, but not her resigned sorrow. All of a sudden words failed him.  _Goodbye_  would have sounded as grim as a death knell if he could bear to utter it.

"I thought you were gone," she said, her tone soft in a way he had never heard it before. Any insult he had done her when he had tried to kiss her was forgotten or ignored now.

"Tomorrow," Jaime replied, seeking to put a quick end to any hopes she might have had that he was here to rescue her. Beneath the guilt, he felt a sharp twist of shame, worsened when she asked him;

"Have they told you what they plan to do with me?"

"Lord Bolton's travelling tomorrow as well. He's going to the Twins for Edmure Tully's wedding," Jaime paused and looked away, "you're to remain here."

"With Hoat," Brienne stated flatly. She searched Jaime's face for indication that he knew what that meant. What they would do to her with no master to rein them in. He held her gaze for as long as he could bear, searching desperately for words that would make her understand. Himself nine months previous, before his capture and his maiming and the months and months of malnutrition and fleeing, always fleeing and never being able to get warm, the Jaime before all that, the man he  _used_ to be, could have freed her from this nightmare in so many ways. It was a strange and distasteful thing for him to be utterly without power. The man he had been before may as well have died at the hands of Robb Stark for how much of him Jaime felt was left now, but he didn't grieve for that man - only for his hand.

"I owe you a great debt," Jaime told her, his voice grave.

"When Catelyn Stark released you, we both made a promise to her," Brienne replied, her voice just as solemn, "Now it's your promise. You gave your word. Keep it, and consider the debt paid,"

Jaime felt gratutide of a magnitude he had never known. She trusted him, she trusted he would keep his word. It was his first taste of sincere honour since the day he had bloodied his blade on his king.

"I will return the Stark girls to their mother. I swear it," he vowed. The look Brienne gave him was sweet, tenderness there somewhere beneath the armour she clad herself in.

"Goodbye Ser Jaime," she said, with such a note of finality that it made his chest ache dully. She held herself with such dignity in that moment, and with a sudden clarity so piercing it took his breath away, he knew that she was the strongest woman he had ever known. Goodbye would not come to his lips; he had always been so quick to know what to say, but she rendered him without words.


	5. Chapter 5

**Brienne**

Three days had been long enough to reflect on the events that had brought her to this moment. On Renly, and how she had failed him, and now she would fail Lady Catelyn too; but the taste wasn't bitter. She reflected on Jaime, too. Brienne had hope that he would keep his word to free the Stark girls, and it lightened her heart despite the gloom of her predicament. He had not turned out to be the man she had expected, not the man so reviled by the Seven Kingdoms. He would honour his promise, she knew. It was enough.

The wind screamed through the rafters, low and lamenting, as though heralding her final dawn. Her greatest regret was that her king had died in her arms, but the regret that she had not kissed Jaime Lannister when he had given her the chance to easily came second. She felt sad that she would die unkissed, though likely no longer a maiden. It would have been sweet to have the memory for the short time she had left to carry it.

Faintly, below the screaming of the Autumn gale, she could hear the gregarious shouts of men and the clatter of horse-hooves on cobbles. She could almost sense Jaime getting further away from her, she imagined him down there passing under the portcullis, leaving to return to his family. She was glad he had come to her before he left.

She slept no more than a few hours, and was awoken by the drunken roar of a rabble ascending the tower. Her stomach clenched and she searched the room wildly for any makeshift weapon she had missed the other half-hundred times she searched for one. There was nothing, only the brazier, and that was too heavy and too hot to lift.

The door flew open with such violence that the whole tower seemed to shake, and Rorge's unpleasantly familiar face appeared at the door. He was not alone; Pyg, Timeon, Shagwell and Zollo followed, all of them bawdily shouting to one another. Brienne backed away, aghast when she saw the pink dress bunched in Rorge's fists. She waited for them to draw close enough, their wits duller than usual from whatever they had been filling their cups with all morning, and then she kicked the brazier with all of her might. Scorching coal and embers spilled out over the stone floor, catching Shagwell by surprise. The fool hopped from foot to foot, the bells on the ends of his hat ringing and jingling exaggeratedly as he writhed. The sight made Zollo, who had been unharmed, break out into wheezy laughter.

Rorge hooted and lunged for her but feinted at the last second, leaving her unprepared for when Pyg and Timeon grabbed her. Their hands were vice-like on her arms, so tight that she knew there would be dark bruises there tomorrow should she live long enough for them to show. Rorge cackled and started to bellow; "A bear, there was, a bear! A  _bear_! All black and brown and covered with hair!"

His voice was horrible, made worse by the flat quality that his noselessness gave it. Brienne struggled and kicked, but they were wary of her this time and careful not to give her any quarter. Rorge slid a small glimmering blade from his belt and showed her with a grin.

"Oh come they said, come to the fair! The fair? said he, but I'm a bear!" he continued, spittle flying from his lips. When he was satisfied that she had seen the dagger, he began to slash at the roughspun breeches and jerkin she wore. Brienne had no choice but to remain still as he arced the blade back and forth, he seemed not to care at all if he cut through fabric or flesh.

Rorge gave a ribald snort once she was naked before them, leaning forward to leer at her and giving her a close up view of his mutilated face. Brienne clenched her jaw and vowed not to scream, no matter what they did to her.

"Has she got a cock down there?" Zollo crowed, letting go of her arm with one of his hands to reach down between her legs. Brienne took advantage of his loosened grip and headbutted him before he could grope her, satisfied at the wet cracking sound the blow made. He roared in furious agony, blood streaming down his chin and onto his chest.

"Don't let go of her, stupid!" Rorge yelled, waiting for Zollo to have gotten a tight hold on her again before he advanced - still remembering what happened when she had broken loose before. He shoved the dress over her head and pulled it down. Brienne no longer resisted when she realised what he was doing; wearing that dress was better than wearing nothing.

"Sorry to disappoint you bitch, but I wouldn't risk sticking anything in you that I want to keep," Rorge spat. Brienne said nothing as they pushed her from the room, not believing that Rorge wouldn't rape her the second he saw weakness. They forced her down the steps, soon taking up the song again, though in their drunken state they could only remember the first verse so they settled for singing that, only louder every time.

It was only once they were very close to the pit that Brienne heard the bear over the din the Bloody Mummers were making. There were more men around the bear pit, seated on the marble benches around the sides. They cheered when they saw her, and she felt sick. From men into monsters, baying for blood. Each of them once had been born to a mother, had been innocent and pure. What led them to this?  _There is a beast within every man, and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand_. Brienne did not show them her fear.

"Three hundred dragons," Vargo Hoat's voice came from somewhere within the mob, and she had to strain to hear him, "three hundred dragons, your father offers me."

The men quietened to listen to their leader, and Brienne remembered Jaime's lies of sapphires. She could not feel angry with him; he had bought her a stay of execution with those non-existent gemstones. Her father could not pay the ransom though, now that it had been set so high. Brienne felt a warm hand squeeze her heart at the thought of her lord father. Tarth was not the Rock, it was a name built on honour rather than gold. She held her head high, saying nothing.

"I piss on three hundred dragons," Hoat continued. He gestured to the pit below and grinned at her. Brienne looked down and tried hard to keep the fear from showing. A great black bear stood on its hindlegs, easily three feet taller than her and ten times as heavy. The Bloody Mummers had worked the animal into a frothing fury by pelting it with rocks and it paced angrily, stopping every now and then to lift its nose to the air and snarl, roaring to the jeering crowd.

Hoat struck Brienne across the face, the blow landing so quickly she had no time to ready herself for it, let alone try to block. She staggered back, her balance failing, then gone completely as he shoved her with the sole of his boot so that she fell down into the pit, raising raucous cheering from the spectators. Brienne managed a clumsy breakfall, hindered by the dress as she was, and was rapidly on her feet again. The bear charged for her immediately, and for an instant she was frozen with fear. There was dumb rage in the beast's eyes as it brought one great paw down in an arc in a blow that, had it landed, would have surely opened her skull. Brienne parried and side-stepped away, never daring to show her back to the animal.

Hoat threw down a sword and it landed in the sand a few metres from her. Before the bear could charge her again, Brienne rolled gracefully and snatched the weapon up. It was only then that she realised the blade's edge was completely blunted - it was a sword for use in the training yard, and it could no more kill a bear than a toy stick-sword could.

The bear did not know that, though. All it knew was that it had seen similar objects before, and the men wielding them had been able to hurt it badly with them. It stood on its hind legs and let out another roar before advancing on her again.

Brienne kited the animal, ducking and weaving to avoid its windmilling paws, sweat pouring from her with the exertion. She could not keep going indefinitely, she knew that. The bear would not tire before she did. She slipped up, almost allowing herself to be cornered, and the beast landed a glancing blow that tore into her neck from clavicle to ear. She cried out and struck the animal's muzzle with the pommel of the blade with two quick hits that drove it back, taking the opportunity to dart out into open space again.

She parried and weaved, growing more and more tired and desperate as time went on, with the bear growing ever more frustrated and aggressive. Her shoulders were slumped, and the weight of the sword was growing heavy. The thought of the bear's jaws closing around her throat and of the pleasure it would bring the baying crowd kept her afoot.

The bear saw Jaime before she did - absorbed as she was in the task of staying alive. It reared up onto two legs and snorted, peeling back black lips to show huge yellow teeth. Brienne glanced behind her to where the bear was looking, disbelieving her eyes when she saw Jaime rising to his feet.  _Have they captured him again?_  Her first instinct was to protect him - she had the sword-hand and the sword to go with it, after all, even if it was only a toy one.

"Brienne, get behind me," Jaime shouted to her, his good hand closing on her wrist and pulling her back. She refused and would not let him get in front of her at first, but he was stronger than her, and she was so tired from fighting for so long. He wrapped an arm around her waist and urged her back, stepping between her and the bear to shield her from any further harm. It was no use trying to get past him, he was holding her arm so tightly and struggling only pushed them both closer to the raging animal.

She felt certain she was about to watch the bear's paw land in a killing blow as it reared back and they had no more room to fall back, but a crossbolt thudded into the meat of the animal's shoulder, and then with three more  _thuds_ , three more arrows slammed into its haunch. The bear snarled and retreated, staggering back.

"Don't kill my  _bear_!" Hoat shouted furiously at a cross-bow wielding man in long greaves, before hurling a half-drunk tankard of ale to the ground. It bounced and rolled to the sand.

"Lord Bolton's orders were to bring the Kingslayer to his father. Not let him get turned into bear-shit," the man replied brusquely. He had a company of soldiersunder his command - enough men for the Bloody Mummers not to draw swords on them without orders from their leader. The soldiers helped her out of the pit first, and then she reached down to pull Jaime up. She looked away as she felt his gaze on her, knowing that she was in a terrible state.

"Let's go, Steelshanks, I've gotten what I came back for," Jaime told the man in charge. Steelshanks didn't need to hear it twice, they were on their way quickly before the situation could escalate any further. The crowd of disappointed spectators made disgruntled shouts and boos, but none of them dared raise their sword. Doubtless, Hoat saw that they were drunk and without their armour on, and did not fancy his chances against Steelshanks' sober, well-prepared men.

Brienne did not breathe easy until they had passed under the portcullis and were on the winding road leading away from Harrenhal. Jaime handed her a blanket and she gratefully wrapped it around herself, glad to have something to cover the awful ill-fitting dress.

"We don't have enough horses, and we've lost time already," Steelshanks said curtly, "the wench will have to ride double with someone and we'll pick up another mount on the way."

"I'll ride double," Jaime said, before she had chance to speak, "she can take my courser."

Brienne was touched by his chivalry but could not bring herself to show it in front of these men. It was too much that Jaime had come back for her at all. Her throat had gone tight, anyway, and if she spoke she risked being overwhelmed.  _Why? Why did he come back?_

"I'll ride with him, if he puts that dress on," one of Steelshank's men hooted. The other soldiers laughed, but the captain's face stayed stony.

"I don't give a shit who you ride with, Kingslayer, just get on a fucking horse," he ordered.

Jaime gave him a sweet smile as he approached; "That's quite the steed you've got Steelshanks, I think she would carry us both well enough,"

Before the captain could voice protest, Jaime had placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up with his good hand so that he was sitting in saddle behind him. Steelshanks did not look pleased, but he was already peeved with having lost near half the day. They needed to make up the time badly, so he made little complaint and set off once more.

Brienne mounted Jaime's mare and held the blanket tightly, feeling self-conscious and still badly rattled from her ordeal back at the castle. She was relieved that Jaime was out of her view - looking at him made her feel weakened and without armour. She rode in silence, not joining in with the soldier's banter nor giving much reply to any questions that were directed at her. The wound on her neck from the bear's claws stung and throbbed, though it had stopped bleeding too quickly to have struck anything vital. It needed tending to, but she would wait for as long as it took - she could not believe she had left that place alive, and was in no great hurry to be left for dead at the roadside.  _Not that Jaime would allow it._

As the light began to fade and the weather worsened, Steelshanks called a halt and ordered his men to set up camp. Brienne climbed off Jaime's horse and stood shivering, unsure of what to do to be of use. The ache from her wound had radiated down her neck and through her shoulders, making her feel stiff and unsteady. Jaime called out to her, but when she saw who he was with her eyes grew dark. The maester had been one of the Brave Companions, she knew.

"Brienne, Qyburn will tend your wounds," Jaime told her. Brienne just glared at the maester, her mouth set in a firm line. The maester stepped forward, and she stepped away.

"Brienne come, would you rather let that fester?" Jaime asked, tilting his head at her.  _Yes_ , she thought resignedly. She would not let one of the Bloody Mummers lay a hand on her, no matter if he claimed to be a healer.

"Then may I at least take a look?" Qyburn quizzed. Brienne was still for a few seconds and then nodded, lifting her chin to bare the ragged wound to the maester's eyes. Jaime came over for a look too, standing so close to her that she could feel his warmth.

Qyburn raised his hand, about to prod at her marred flesh when Brienne stepped away and reminded him sharply; "I did not say you could touch."

"It must be cleaned," Qyburn said solemnly, "it doesn't appear to be deep, but without being washed and given salve it will surely putrefy,"

"I'll do it myself," Brienne answered abruptly. Jaime rolled his eyes and took her by the elbow, leading her to the small clearing by the roadside where the soldiers were setting up camp. She allowed herself to be led, and sat down on a fallen tree trunk where he gestured. Under the canopy of an oak he built them a fire, holding the tinderbox between his knees and working clumsily with his left hand. She did not try to intervene when he struggled, knowing that without practice he would never adapt. The rain was still light enough for the fire to take blaze, and once that was done Qyburn brought Jaime his satchel and they exchanged a few words.

There were other fires around the camp - better fires, that didn't smoke quite so much and gave off more heat thanks to drier kindling - but they were away from Bolton's men here, and for that she would gladly be cold. Jaime heated a pot of herbs and water under Qyburn's instruction, while the old maester made a poultice. Brienne watched Jaime while he was distracted with his task, having to concentrate on something that would have previously come without conscious thought now that he only had one hand to work with. She saw him so differently now. Her heart ached to look upon him, he was so beautiful, she thought again of how he had almost kissed her and wondered what it would have been like to feel his mouth on hers, the scratch of his stubble, the softness of his lips. He met her eye then and she immediately looked away, embarrassed, feeling certain he could read what she was thinking from merely looking at her.

He came over and placed the satchel by his feet before sitting astride the fallen tree with her.

"I can do it-" Brienne started, but Jaime batted her hand away and fished a scrap of fabric from the steaming pot, first taking her chin with his fingers and guiding her head back, then cleaning the gouge-wounds with a firm yet gentle hand. She inhaled sharply, grimacing as the clotting wounds were re-opened to be scoured clean.

"I'm sorry," Jaime murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw tenderly as he said it. She could not be sure he did it deliberately or as a consequence of tending her wounds.

"It's fine," she replied through gritted teeth.

"I should have come back sooner,"

Brienne tried to look at him but he pushed her chin again so that he could keep cleaning. She could feel fresh blood trickling down her neck and onto her chest.

"Why did you come back? It was a risk," she asked, hearing a note of hope in the question and hating herself for it. He was still then, pondering how to answer. Qyburn interrupted, handing Jaime a mortar which he balanced on his knee. Jaime dipped his fingers into the bowl and they came out covered in a grey-brown paste.

"Apply it to the wound, all over, and then bandage," the maester instructed sagely. Jaime waved him away. Brienne squeezed her eyes shut as he slathered the cataplasm onto her broken skin, the pain first like fire, and then diminishing. When it was done, she knotted the bandage herself, knowing that he would not manage it without his hand.

"Thank you," she said, her eyes cast down to the ground. Jaime nodded and said nothing for a long moment, and then got up to tend the fire. Brienne tried not to, but she could not help watching him again. He had not given her an answer to her question, and still it burned inside her.  _Why?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Jaime**

He had not felt like the White Knight come to rescue the maiden when he leapt into that bear pit, he had felt desperation and terror - terror that he had been too slow to realise that what he was leaving behind at Harrenhal was far too valuable not to take with him.  _I'll pay her ransom - anything, name your price._  It had almost sounded like begging, he hadn't known his voice could sound like that. He had to keep looking at her to reassure himself she was safe now.

It was difficult to be near her with all of Steelshanks' men so close in proximity. He could not say the words he needed to say, though even if they had been alone he doubted he would be able to articulate himself. Tending her wounds was an excuse to touch her, to feel her beneath his hands and reassure himself that yes, she was still alive, his mistake had not cost him that at least. When she closed her eyes and trusted him to care for her, he tried to think of when Cersei had ever been so pliant to him. The only time he remembered her hurt was when Robert had struck her, and she would shake with fury and silent tears and push him away when he tried in vain to comfort her, furious at her own weakness, furious that he could not protect her. She would would rake him with her nails and pinch his skin until pink welts rose, pulling his hair as she rode him hard, fucking him to spite her husband, to spite their father, to spite  _him_  for being born a man and never having to know her humiliations.

Brienne thanked him quietly, and it was on his lips to thank her in return, but he could not explain to her the reasons for his gratitude, not without repulsing her. He stoked the fire some and then went to find them supper, and something for Brienne to wear that she would find more comfortable than her ill-suited dress.

He agreed to pay a soldier named Gawen fifty golden dragons for his leathers once they reached King's Landing, much to the man's delight. He rolled the clothing up and took it back to Brienne, along with half a pail of venison and onion broth to share.

When he handed the set of supple leather armour with the flayed man of House Bolton embroidered onto the breast to her, she thanked him again. Her voice was lighter though, filled with relief.

"You can change now, if you want. I will protect your modesty," he told her. She eyed him dubiously, which earned a chuckle.

"You forget, I have seen it all before," Jaime reminded her. Brienne grew flustered at that and took the clothes from him hastily, getting up to go behind the broad trunk of the oak to have privacy while she changed. Jaime followed and leaned with his back to her, indicating he would be a look-out should anyone come wandering their way.

Naturally, he fibbed. Once he heard the ragged dress slide to the ground he looked over his shoulder to get a glimpse of her changing - not for the hope of mocking her the way some of the soldiers would have, but because she was so alluring to him. It wouldn't hurt her if he stole a glance. His cock had already gone hard just at the thought of her being in her smallclothes and only a metre away from him. But when he saw her, his guts twisted. She had no smallclothes. Her arms and legs were ringed with bruising all too clearly from men's hands as they had held her down.

"Gods Brienne, what did they do to you," Jaime whispered, having crept up on her to look more closely at the contusions. She recoiled, shocked at his presence, and quickly crossed her arms over her small breasts.

"What in seven hells do you think you're doing!" she hissed, upset as well as furious. Jaime felt a sick tumble of emotions, all the more off-putting by the fact that he still very much wanted her.

"I'll kill them all," he vowed, his jaw clenched. Brienne just gaped at him, her face and neck burning hot.

"I'll have their heads on spikes," he uttered. His anger was white-hot, almost debilitating. He had always had a temper, acted without thinking. If only he had thought sooner this time, he could have gone back. He should never have left her alone there, not even for a moment.  _Was it Rorge? Zollo? More than one? From those bruises, it was the lot of them._  Beneath his fury, though he was too shamed to admit it, there was a sliver of jealousy. They had taken something from her that he would never be able to have now. Something that should have been given, not stolen.

"Jaime I'm-" Brienne gestured to the clothes on the ground and seemed to notice for the first time the livid streaks of bruising that mottled her skin, " _oh,_ " was all she said, and then after a long time, "Jaime I want to get dressed please,"

He glanced around as if realising where he was for the first time, and promptly turned around to give her privacy. He walked stiffly back to their small fire when she had changed, and sat down heavily. He had no appetite for supper any longer, and gazed into the fire while she ate. He couldn't stop picturing it in his mind.

"Jaime, they didn't," Brienne said, leaning in so that she would not be overheard. Jaime turned his gaze up at her without lifting his head, searching for her meaning. She looked uncomfortable but so earnest.

"They put me in the dress and threw me in the pit. No more," she elaborated stiffly, clearly eager to change the subject. Jaime blinked at her and sat up straight, trying to find a tactful way of phasing himself but coming up short.

"You... are a maid," he stated, though it was a question really, and she understood that well enough. She went pink in the cheeks but kept his eye as she nodded. Jaime's relief was palpable.

"Good... Well, that's... Obviously..." he trailed off lamely. Brienne looked away for a few seconds and when she glanced back she was laughing at him. He was elated and surprised; she so seldom laughed. Her teeth were uneven and broken from her years of fighting, but to him her smile was no less beautiful for it.

"What are you laughing at?" he asked, his tone clipped but playful.

"You suddenly came over all protective," she answered, her voice lightened by mirth, "it was very gallant,"

Jaime could not help but return her smile with one of his own and then snatched their helping of supper out from under her nose.

"I wasn't finished-" Brienne protested.

"I'm compensating for being too gallant earlier," Jaime answered through a mouth full of food. Brienne pulled a disgusted face at him but could not hold it long before it cracked to reveal another smile. She grew serious again, all too soon for Jaime's liking, her intense gaze fixated on the flames of their campfire. He had felt so absurdly proud to have earned her smile, her laughter, even just for a moment. He realised it was the first time she had smiled since he had known her; it was not in her nature to smile falsely, to use women's courtesies to wile or flatter men into better treating her. Jaime had to remind himself she was hardly comely enough to have the option available to her - it seemed harder to see her aesthetic flaws the more he grew to know her.

He waited until she had settled into her furs for the night before he chose for himself where he would sleep. It was tempting to feign shivers and shuffle close to her, tempting and all too transparent. Plus Jaime liked to think he had more finesse than to have to resort to such juvenile tactics when it came to seduction. The truth was, he hadn't really seduced anyone - not actively. Cersei and he had always been one, two pieces of one soul, that was what he had always believed - what he had built his life around, so devoted was he to staying close to her. Any other seduction he had participated in had never reached beyond flirtation, of course, nor had never wished for more than that, but even flirtation with Brienne was utterly elusive. She didn't care a whit about his gold, or his name and the power it promised - if she thought he was handsome she hid it well enough (Jaime wasn't even sure if he  _was_  handsome anymore, after malnourishment, captivity and fatigue), and now that he was crippled, he had no hope of winning her with a display of his combat prowess. Those had been the passive qualities that had drawn women to him, and she was immune to every single one.

He bedded down by the fire, far away from her, but so that he could see her face easily. She did not look so serious once she fell into slumber; the harshness slipped from her face like a mask and revealed the maid within the warrior. Jaime felt his sentimentality was being marred slightly by the longing ache in his groin, but could not help it. Thinking that another man had taken her maidenhead had been such a bitter draught that he was forced to admit the truth, if only to himself; he wanted to have that from her, he longed for her to give that of herself over to him. To  _him_. And so, wondering at the taste of her, if she would be languid or zealous as she straddled his hips, if she would kiss him sweetly or scrape her nails against his back, Jaime drifted to sleep.

They rose at dawn to pack up camp and begin their journey once more. Jaime had slept fitfully, dreaming strange dreams of Casterly Rock and the dark caves below the castle, terrifying black tunnels that ran deep under the earth that existed only in his nightmare. He couldn't remember much of it when he woke, and after a hurried breakfast of cold black sausage and hard bread he had all but forgotten it.

Jaime wandered towards Steelshanks' courser, but the soldier balked at the notion of sharing saddle with him again for the day.

"You can ride with your wench," the captain told him when he approached, "I'm not having you making your witty little observations in my ear all day."

"Aye, if you ask her sweet, she might let you hold the reins," one of his soldier's called, to much appreciative guffawing from his comrades. Jaime took it with good humour, deep-down secretly pleased that he would ride with her all day.

If she felt one way or the other about sharing saddle with Jaime, she did not let on. Her face was a stoic mask again, her armour restored. It was as though the day before had not happened. He mounted the courser first and thankfully she climbed behind him, not in front. He did not long to spend the day with her pushing against his crotch - he would hardly have been able to hide his arousal then, and that would have been beyond awkward.

They were not long on the road before Qyburn cantered up to ride beside them. The maester's efforts to ingratiate himself to Jaime were hardly subtle, so he was not truly surprised when the maester revealed himself as the one who had sent the girl, Pia, to his quarters,

"I believe you had a visitor at Harrenhal - I trust that you enjoyed her," the maester asked. Jaime gave him a cool look. It was a calculated question, and Jaime realised that the man was trying not only to win Jaime's favour, but glean information - for nothing was so powerful as that.

"So, you sent her, did you? I should have known," Jaime replied.

"Your fever was largely gone, I thought you might enjoy a bit of excercise. Pia is quite skilled, would you not agree? And so... willing," the maester replied.

He could tell the exact instant Brienne took Qyburn's meaning, for she went completely rigid.

"Do you send girls to everyone you leech?" Jaime asked, deflecting the question.

"More often Lord Vargo sends them to me. He likes me to examine them before ... Well suffice it to say that he once loved unwisely and he has no wish to do so again. But have no fear, Pia is quite healthy," Qyburn replied. Jaime forced a smile and hoped it passed as genuine, politely excused himself, and spurred the horse on further up the line. He cantered alongside Steelshanks.

"Do we make good time?" Jaime called to the captain.

"If we keep this pace, we may well get there in time for the royal wedding," Steelshanks replied. Brienne was still stiff as a board behind him, and Jaime hated that he wanted so badly to confess. _I don't owe her explanations or platitudes_ , he scolded himself.  _It's Cersei I stayed faithful to, not her_. But regardless of his rationalizations, it gnawed at him for the rest of the day's ride.

She barely spoke to him when they stopped to make camp that night, and it dampened his good humour. She answered him when he asked her questions, but her tone was formal and she did not look at him like she had done the night before; he was sure he had caught her staring at him then, with a softness in her sapphire eyes. Tonight she looked only at the ground and her supper, and she placed her sleeping furs away from everyone else, setting herself apart from them.

The next day was not as bad, but Jaime distinctly felt as though Brienne fortified her walls against him with every hour that had passed. He could not articulate just what it was exactly; she was not short with him, nor did she look upset, but he felt a great chasm had begun to open, with her at one side and him at the other. With every step towards King's Landing, it grew wider. It bothered him though he could not explain why it mattered. His heart grew heavier with each step that carried him towards home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Jaime**

The party stopped that night at a tavern off the Kingsroad in Brindlewood. It was bustling even before Steelshanks' arrival with his company of men. Jaime felt sure someone would recognize him now that they were drawing so close to King's Landing, but if they did, they kept it to themselves. Jaime had Gawen pay the innkeep for two rooms. There were no spare beds, but the soldier knew the depth of Lannister pockets and did a good job of bartering with a group of merchants heading for the capital, who valued coin over comfort for one night. It was too hot in the tavern, too full of strangers all too comfortable with bumping up and brushing against one another as they sang and laughed and drank.

At the bar, a fat ruddy-faced knight was regaling rapt patrons - many of them Steelshanks' men - of news from the Riverlands. He had almost forgotten Edmure Tully, but it made sense that the peasants would gossip, and they did so love a wedding. Jaime halted though, when he realised what the man was saying.

"They're calling it the Red Wedding. I've never heard of anything like it. The Starks were protected by the Guest Right and the Freys slaughtered them at the dinner table!"

Jaime touched the man's arm to get his attention, and studied his face. There was no flicker of recognition there, only bleariness from too much ale.

"Do you mean to tell me the Freys murdered the boy? Robb Stark is dead?" he asked.

"And lady wife! Slain at his Uncle's wedding! They say his head was struck off and his direwolf's sewn to his neck in it's stead," the fat knight said. His tone was dutifully disgusted, but Jaime knew he was relishing in telling the tale. It was not the first time he had told it, nor did he expect it would be the last.

"And his mother, the Lady Catelyn?" Jaime asked, thinking of Brienne's oath,  _his_  oath.

"Murdered begging for her son's life. Throat cut from ear to ear. They stripped her naked and threw her into the trident, a mockery of the Tully funeral tradition," the knight replied.

"How grisly," Jaime commented. He did not need to hear any more, nor did he care to. The smallfolk's gossip had a habit of wandering from the truth - the only thing Jaime could believe of it was that the King in the North was dead. Perhaps much of his host had died with him, any left would have scattered and fled. There would be more chaos, more bloodshed, and more turmoil in the North as the Lords that remained struggled to carve out their own order. A perfect climate for opportunists and scoundrels, but hardly a place for the honourable and pure of heart.  _No,_ he thought,  _no place for the likes of Brienne of Tarth there now. What good is a knight without duty?_

He found her in the corner, by the hearth. She had recently bathed - probably in the cold water from the pump outside - and her hair was still damp. A flaxen lock lay across her cheek, and he longed to brush it back behind her ear, to reach out a hand he didn't have in a tender gesture that wasn't his to make.

She thanked him when he placed a stein of honey mead down in front of her. Her voice was flat, and her eyes did not lift from the scarred wooden table, even as he sat opposite her. _She's heard the talk, then_. He sought for words to comfort her but none came - he did not often have cause to be comforting and suspected he was not very good at it, but he wished he had something to offer. Brienne looked so utterly broken in that moment. Facing her own mortality at the hands of a band of marauders, the prospect of being raped mercilessly, and a spot of unarmed combat with a half-tonne bear had all done very little to put out the fires of her spirit. To look upon her now, though, she had no fight left in her.

"I heard... Brienne, I am sorry," Jaime murmured, after they had sat in silence and drank long enough to have emptied their cups. She looked at him for the first time then, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Sorry?" she repeated, "you are  _sorry_ , Kingslayer? You expect me to believe that the news doesn't delight you?"

_Kingslayer again, is it?_  Jaime mused, and the sting of it must have shown on his face because her neck blushed prettily and she looked away, ashamed. Before she could retract her words or say anything further, Jaime rose and left. He did not look back to see what expression was on her face as he went, but he hoped it w as regret. He was only fetching them both another much needed ale, but she could not know that.

He returned a short time later with drinks for the both of them, and he saw clear enough that she was relieved to see him.  _Let her shout Kingslayer until she's blue in the face if it lifts some of that bloody misery,_  Jaime found himself thinking. But Brienne didn't have another outburst, she simply drank and regarded the table. He almost asked her what she planned to do now that there was no mother to bring the Stark girls home to, but realised Brienne probably did not know the answer to that. Perhaps she would pledge her sword to Lady Sansa now. Jaime had seen Brienne in combat, indeed had fought against her himself - though he was in chains at the time - she was better than most men he had fought, and stronger than most too. He wondered if he could entice her into the Kingsguard - she lacked the flaws that so many men cultivated and grew attached to; pride, lust, greed. She was every bit as virtuous as Duncan the Tall. And it t would keep her close to him, though he did not consciously acknowledge that factor. Who better to protect Joffrey, apart from perhaps the boy's Hound? He made a note to raise it with her in due course, but not yet. The loss of her Lady Catelyn was too raw just now, and it would have been crass to bring it up, not to mention that she would almost certainly refuse unless he broached the topic skillfully.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" Brienne asked him by their fifth drink.

"You or me," Jaime replied, and then elaborated, "I'm hoping either you'll drink enough to be less bloody miserable, or I'll drink enough to not notice anymore,"

Brienne gave him a cool stare and informed him; "You needn't stay."

Jaime laughed and raised his drink to her, choosing to be silent rather than further taunt her. He did so thoroughly enjoy teasing her, but it was utterly unappealing when she was already so unhappy. The alcohol had taken its toll on him and he was feeling pleasantly warm and indifferent to his rambunctious fellow patrons, whom had so irritated him earlier. He was not pleased by Brienne's misery, but he was not saddened by the news that had brought it. It would have been ingenuine to pretend otherwise to her. The method of Stark's dispatch was distasteful, and indeed the complete disregard of the Guest Right set worrisome precedent for future attempts at diplomacy amongst houses, but Jaime was a  _Lannister_ and such concerns were for the weaker houses to fret over.

Other patrons' conversation drifted through the din and each time the Red Wedding was mentioned, each time a new brutal morsel reached their ears, Brienne winced. She did not leave, though. It was strange to watch this self-imposed punishment, and for a short time he mused over it, but it quickly felt morbid and so he felt in his pocket for the keys to the rooms he had rented.

"We can have some comfort for tonight, at least," he said.

He produced one of the keys from his pocket and slid it across the table, looking pleased with himself and awaiting his much-deserved gratitude, but Brienne only looked confused. Jaime waited for it to clear, reminding himself that Brienne had often proved slow to understand social graces. But grateful was not the right word for the emotion Brienne showed him. In fact, though he knew he was slightly drunk, he did start to identify hostility. Quite a lot of hostility.

"You  _presume_ to-! Do you mistake me for some meek simpleton to be sent to your bedchamber at your whim? You fare better making your prepositions to that maester, Qyburn," Brienne spat his name as though it left a bad taste just to speak it, "I am sure the likes of him would be able to find you a whore to warm your bed for you.  _Again_ ,"

Jaime sat astounded, and tried to follow the train of thought that had gone through Brienne's mind to lead her to whatever conclusion she had reached. If he had not been quite so drunk, he felt it might have been easier. He looked down at the key, as if imploring it to speak the wisdom he needed. He pulled out the second key from his pocket and stared at that, as though it might hold a clue. He noticed her expression shift through three stages then; surprise; comprehension; mortification.

"Oh Brienne," he laughed, understanding now that she had mistaken his gift for an attempt at bedding her, not realising that Jaime had intended it for her and her alone. His laughter made her blush so furiously, but he could not contain it. She could not tolerate what she was seeing as mockery for long before she left the table and strode out of the inn. Jaime composed himself and finished his drink, feeling slightly remorseful that he had managed to make Brienne feel even worse than she already did. He couldn't feel entirely to blame though. She seemed to jump at the chance to take insult where there was none.

* * *

**Brienne**

The winds had risen, blowing hard from the narrow sea to the east. Rain came with them, fine and cool. Brienne savoured the feel of it against her burning skin. Jaime had done a fine job of helping her to take her mind away from her slain Lady, from the duties she would never be able to fulfill. He had buried it under humiliation. Brienne was no stranger to men's laughter, she had weathered it well before now. But Jaime's laughter had cut deep, and she didn't dare allow herself to examine why that was. It was a bright night, despite the rains. She looked out over the land, scanning the horizon for any landmark to indicate their distance from the capital city. It would be a relief to get there - a relief to no longer be tied to Jaime Lannister - though she supposed she could just leave  _now_. Nothing awaited her in King's Landing anymore. She had no Lord or Lady to serve, no oath to fulfill. It wouldn't have felt right though, to disappear into the night. She owed it to Lady Catelyn to at least go to her daughters and tell them she tried. She  _tried_. It sounded pathetic.

Brienne jolted with surprise when a thick blanket was draped over her shoulders. She turned to see Jaime, and wondered how on earth she hadn't noticed his approach - he was clearly drunk. He gave her a look that might have been sheepishness, but she couldn't be sure. She wished he hadn't come after her, hadn't tried to be kind. It was the inconsistency that agonized her. She glared at him, forcing herself to keep his eye though she really wanted to look anywhere else.

"Qyburn's girl didn't warm my bed, Brienne," Jaime told her. She was horrified that he would bring  _that_  up, that he had detected in some way how strongly it had made her feel. She told herself it was just disapproval, disappointment that he would break his oath (though hadn't he already confessed to that, and with his own sister no less?) but it had pained her more deeply than that. Another wound to be ignored.

"I'm aware of what goes on, Jaime, I know she wasn't literally warming your bed," Brienne snapped, "and what you do is your own business, it's none of my concern," she finished unconvincingly. Why did he have to come out here? Why couldn't he just stop tormenting her?

"No," Jaime sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture indicating he was summoning the last of his patience, "I sent her away. Nothing happened."

Brienne processed that information, and tried to understand why he was divulging it to her.

"It's really none of my concern," she repeated. She knew it wasn't her business, knew it shouldn't have made a difference, but it did somehow. He didn't have to tell her that - he didn't  _owe_  her that.

Jaime's eyes looked blue in the moonlight. She knew they weren't, though. They were green, a deep and brilliant green. They showed something akin to tenderness now.

"It upset you," the statement was simple enough, said almost in a whisper. It felt like an accusation. At least in the darkness, he couldn't see how her face flamed.

"I don't-" she started, but he interrupted her;

"Thinking that I had bedded a whore after you had rejected my advances upset you,"

Brienne glowered. Jaime smiled.

"Gods you're so  _arrogant_ ," she hissed at him, turning on her heel. Even intoxicated, his reflexes were fast. His hand darted out and clasped her wrist, tugging her back towards him. Brienne stumbled slightly and found herself as close to Jaime as she was when they shared saddle. His chest was pressed against hers, his grip anchoring her in place. She had meant to ask him what in seven hells he thought he was doing, hadn't it been enough that she had warned him off when he had tried this before, was he so obtuse? She was not some doe-eyed maiden caught in his thrall, she would not be his entertainment for the night, nor his wench to practice upon in preparation for his reunion with his sister. The notion made her sick.

"Don't," she warned him. Her voice was weak though. Jaime's breath was warm on her skin, and she felt his lips moving against her cheek when he spoke.

"Why not?"

_Why not?_  Brienne felt hopeless. What did she have left? What was she without duty, without a purpose? She remembered her cell in the Widow's Tower, she remembered her regrets. Renly, and a kiss. He took her silence for an answer, and pressed his lips to hers. Brienne did not move, did not breathe, did not utter a sound. Her heart raced. It thundered so hard in her chest she was sure he could feel it. Jaime twined his fingers with hers and squeezed gently as he pulled away to look at her face. It had been a sweet kiss, almost chaste. There was no arrogance in his searching gaze.

"Forgive me, my Lady, but I have wanted to do that for some time," Jaime said, voice rumbling with a quality Brienne had never heard.  _Lust,_  she thought dimly,  _that is what desire sounds like_.

"You're drunk," she replied breathlessly. He could take the excuse and save them both embarassment, do the decent thing and forgo humiliating her this one last time - for it would be the last time, if he made a mockery of her like this.

"Yes," he agreed, nodding, "but I was sober after dinner with Roose Bolton, and every night since then. The ale gives me courage, not desire. The desire was already there."

Brienne shivered involuntarily, and was glad Jaime was chivalrous enough to blame it on the rain,

"Let's go back where it's warm and get dry,"

Brienne nodded and turned stiffly to walk back in the direction of the tavern. Jaime did not let go of her hand as they walked, and Brienne looked down to where his palm pressed against hers. It took a long pause for her to decide that she could think of no reason  _why not_  to hold Jaime's hand for a moment. Soon enough they would part ways, soon enough he would forget this brief encounter and would let go of any fleeting desires. She would fade from his memory like a dream he once had. She let go of his hand as they passed over the threshold, lest any of Steelshanks' men catch sight.


	8. Chapter 8

**Jaime**

Instead of pushing his way back into the over-crowded tavern, Jaime led the way up the narrow staircase to the rooms for rent above. The noise from below filtered up through the floor; laughter and shouts, and beneath those the sound of a lute being plucked. He unlocked the door to the room and stood back to allow Brienne to enter. She made no protest or comment when he followed her in.

The room was sparsely furnished - a low bed with a straw-stuffed mattress, a battered chest below the small leadlight window, a worn rug before a small hearth. Compared to the dungeons of Riverrun and the cold, hard earth between Harrenhal and King's Landing, though, it was luxury. He took the lantern from the wall and knelt to start a fire in the grate. Rain pattered against the window, and a gust of wind made the tentative flames shudder and jump. Jaime glanced over his shoulder to see Brienne sat mutely on the bed, dripping from the rain. It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest she dry her clothes in front of the fire, but he remembered how sourly she had reacted when misinterpreting his gesture with the key. He didn't want her to think he was trying to seduce her, even if he was. He wasn't even sure anymore. When he looked at her, the defeated slump of her shoulders, the taut lines of grief in her features, the sadness she radiated; it  _pained_ him. It was an ache in his heart like none he had ever known. It hurt all the more for the knowledge that his comfort was unwelcome; that he did not ease her woes, merely added to them.

Brienne looked at him then, sensing his gaze on her. She must have read something from the way he was looking at her, because she blushed. Jaime had not had the added shelter of a blanket while they had lingered in the rain together, and the damp had seeped through his travelling cloak and doublet all the way to his skin. He gestured to himself and the fire;

"Do you mind if I dry off?"

Brienne shook her head, but her blush deepened when Jaime began to undress. She had not expected him to, he realised.

"Are you sure?" he asked, halting. When she looked at him, her gaze caught on his newly bared chest, flickered down to his abdomen almost imperceptibly, then finally up to meet his eyes. Jaime felt his cock begin to stiffen simply from the way she had  _looked_  at him, and thought perhaps he needed to re-evaluate what was like to be more uncomfortable; damp clothes or the reaction Brienne would have when she realised what she did to him.

"It's fine," Brienne answered, turning away to try and hide some of her embarrassment. She pulled off her boots and leather jerkin, laying them out before the fire, and after long consideration, shucked off the padded breeches and set them out to dry too. The linen shirt she wore under the jerkin was oversized and hung down to mid-thigh. She pulled the coverlet from the bed and wrapped it around herself, shielding herself from Jaime's eyes before she drew closer to the fire to benefit from its warmth.

Jaime eased himself down onto the rug beside her, and for a time they both gazed at the crackling flames without speaking. He wanted badly to kiss her again, but she could be so skittish, he dreaded doing something to force her guard back up again just as she had begun to let him close. He was also wary of taking advantage of her, though to look upon her she was the least likely of wenches to have a man do anything that could be construed as taking advantage of her. But beneath her appearance and the careful walls she had fortified, Jaime recognized Brienne's fragility.

Another surge of wind buffeted the inn, gusting through the gaps in the floorboards and rattling the window in its frame. Jaime rubbed his right arm in a futile attempt to generate some heat to stave off the chill. Brienne loosened her white-knuckled grip on the blanket and moved closer to him, ushering him into the cocoon of warmth she had created. Jaime was grateful, not only to be let in from the cold, but because she was not shutting him out. At least not yet.

With a tentative confidence he put his good arm around her shoulders, and then when she did not jolt away from him, he slid his palm down to the small of her back. She was so firm to the touch for a woman, all hard planes of muscle and knots of tension. Brienne leaned into the touch, turned her head towards him, rested her cheek on his shoulder. Bolstered, he tilted her chin up with his ruined limb and captured her lips in another kiss. This time she reciprocated, at first just shyly parting her lips under the inquisitive flicker of his tongue, but soon meeting it with her own. She placed a callused hand on his nape, tangling her fingers in his hair and tugging ever so slightly, keeping him from breaking away. Jaime let out a soft little moan of approval, which Brienne seemed to appreciate, if the way she pressed herself against him was anything to judge by.

"Gods I wish you'd let me kiss you sooner," Jaime murmured between kisses, his fingers rubbing slow circles under her shirt at the base of her spine. Brienne responded just as he had hoped - shivering deliciously against him and kissing him all the more urgently. Her other hand pushed its way through his hair now too, and Jaime ached with lust. She lay down and pulled him with her so that they were pressed flush against one another, and it was then that she noticed his erection - hard to ignore when it was standing so proud beneath his linen underclothes and pressing into her hip. She tensed and he felt it, pulling back slightly to assess whether she was having regrets. Whether she had come to her senses. He saw guilt and desire etched in her features.

"Brienne?" he queried, his voice low and rough. He was so seldom lost for words, but he could not think of a thing to say at that moment. She dropped her gaze, unable to meet his eye, and pulled away from him. It was a struggle not to grab her and pull her back to him, so strong was the rush of need that surged through him. She stood and turned away, crossed the room to stand by the window and look out into the dreary night. He did not know what internal conflicts she was struggling with; he did not know the words to sway her back into his arms, nor did he want to charm or beguile her - he wanted her to  _want_  him. Without begging - though he supposed he had begged for her once. To Hoat. The man who took his hand. To his shame.

He stood and went to gather his clothes after she said nothing, did nothing, for enough time to make him understand he was not welcome there any longer.

 

"Jaime, don't," she urged. He gave her a confused look in response.

 

"Don't go," she said, her voice quiet as she added; "stay here tonight."

 

He took in the sight of her, biting her lower lip nervously, everything about her body language telling him she was profoundly uncomfortable. It was so endearing.

 

"I'd like that," he replied, a note of suggestion creeping into his tone. Her eyes rose sharply at that and he couldn't help but chuckle.

 

"Not for... Not for  _that_ ," she admonished him, disarmed when he gave her a rueful smile.

 

"You're blushing again," he told her, tumbling down onto the bed and stretching out like a cat, "and it's adorable, if I may say so,"

"You may not," she reprimanded, but looked almost playful as she said it, just for an instant. Gingerly, she joined him on the bed and settled the coverlet over them both. The oil in the lamp had burnt away while they were wrapped up in one another before the hearth, and the low flicker of the dying fire was all that illuminated the room. Worried that she would bolt from him again, Jaime waited patiently for her nerves to subside before he closed the space between their bodies, his good arm curling around her waist and drawing her to him. Her shoulder was the nearest part of her to his mouth, so he peppered it with gentle kisses and was rewarded by feeling her relax into him. She covered his hand with hers, holding it steadfast against her chest, between her breasts, and he could feel the strong rhythm of her heartbeat. He breathed in her scent, unsure he would ever get this chance to be close to her again. She grieved tonight, for her Lady and for the daughters who had lost their mother, for the North who had lost their King, for herself, now cast adrift. He did not fool himself into thinking she would have let him close without her armour being sundered by such a crippling blow.

He watched her for a time, listening to the gentle sounds of her breathing and the patter of the rain against the window. He watched her until the fire died and only the moonlight illuminated her face, painting her skin silver. Brienne fell asleep in his arms, and Jaime was glad to have finally been able to find a way to give her comfort.


	9. Chapter 9

**Brienne**

Brienne woke slowly, feeling as though she had slept deeply and dreamed well. It dawned belatedly on her that she was not alone, had not dreamed after all. Jaime was curled around her, his arm still encircling her waist, their legs tangled. His slow, steady breathing told her that he was still asleep. Brienne felt a rush of emotion swell in her chest when she thought back to how he had kissed her. She had felt so meek and inexperienced, but if he had noticed her clumsiness - and she was sure he  _must_ have done - he did not seem to mind. It was everything she had imagined it to be and more. His lips were so soft compared to the harsh scrape of his beard. To wake beside him, in his arms, made her feel almost as she had when Renly had smiled and knighted her Brienne the Blue. The way she thought she could never feel again, after he had died as she held him. And then she remembered Lady Catelyn, and the wrench of pain was made worse by her forgetting, even just for a moment. It should have been the very first thing she thought of. She lay very still and contemplated what she must do. She could not believe that Jaime's feelings for her ran deep, his affection was misplaced on her and intended for another, she knew. It stung to make herself think of the lover awaiting him in King's Landing, but it was a necessary pain. One that would make it easier to part from him when the time came. She would not allow herself to be blinded by a girlish fantasy; she was no hapless maiden and he was no golden knight fallen under her spell, wishing to redeem himself to win her heart.

He murmured something in his sleep and nestled into her side, burying his nose in the juncture of her neck and shoulder.  _Cersei_ , Brienne thought.  _He dreams of her._  And why wouldn't he? Cersei's beauty was known across the land, but Brienne had seen the Queen at Robert's side with her own eyes, seen her golden curls and her delicate porcelain features. She radiated an icy, unattainable beauty. Picturing her made Brienne's stomach knot with an emotion she didn't want to put a name to.  _Jealousy_. But it was not her beauty she coveted.

Her mind turned then to her Lady's daughters - and she felt shamed to think of how treacherous she would seem if Lady Catelyn could see her now, in the Kingslayer's arms. It was more than she could bear. She pulled away from the warmth of Jaime's embrace and climbed out of bed, hurriedly gathering her clothing and pulling it on, trying to be silent so that he would not wake up and catch her trying to escape. She did not care to see the disappointment in his eyes when he woke next to her instead of his sister.

Her face burned as she took a seat at one of the tables in the tavern to break her fast. She avoided the gaze of Steelshanks' soldiers, sure that if she glanced up to meet it she would see knowing mockery written across their faces. They knew, surely they  _knew_ where she had spent the night. These were men who should have died at the Crossing, should have died in service of the King in the North.  _How fitting,_ she thought glumly, thinking how she should have died in service of Lady Catelyn herself. She ate a crust of bread mechanically, trying not to feel the burn of their staring eyes. Qyburn took seat beside her and she could not hide how it made her bristle, nor did she try.

"What?" she demanded, not looking at him.

"I trust you slept well?" he asked genially, and she could not tell if the tone in his voice was from some secret knowledge he had gleaned or simply the way he spoke to people he regarded as intellectually inferior. Brienne glared down at her hands, her hair falling into her eyes. She hoped he had not noticed the heat that had risen to her face.

"Fine," she snapped back. She drank deeply from her flagon to avoid having to respond further and to cover her face from him.

"And how heals that wound? Ser Jaime has been tending it well," Qyburn intoned, and Brienne saw the twinkle in his obsidian eyes that time, felt certain that she was not imagining the implication behind his words.

"Fine," she responded again heatedly, putting her flagon down none too gently and fixing him with a hard stare. Qyburn chuckled knowingly but did not seem perturbed, proceeding to tuck into his own meagre breakfast.

* * *

**Jaime**

She had tried not to wake him, but he had never been a deep sleeper. He was too well trained for that. Instead he had lain awake but with eyes closed, listening to her creep about the room and gather her things, not wishing to embarass her by confronting her there. It was no surprise to him that she would want to flee; he had not thought ahead far enough last night to expect it, but if he had, it would have been a logical conclusion. The surprise came from how  _wounded_ he felt by it. He took his time in getting ready, knowing that now they were so close to the city Steelshanks would not care if they left past dawn just this once.

He washed thoroughly, not minding the iciness of the water on his skin when he knew that by nightfall he would be back home, where he could have pails and pails of steaming hot water brought to his chambers. He carefully ran the edge of his dagger across his jaw in an attempt to groom his beard, but it wasn't easy without his dominant hand and only the reflection from the glass in the window. There was more grey than he cared for in the hair that he sheared away. Cersei would not like that - if he was old, then so was she. He laughed humourlessly at the thought of the proud lion he had been when she saw him last. Now, she would look upon him and see a starving stray cat, mangy and maimed. He knew Cersei well enough, he knew she would not hide any revulsion she might feel and that his futile attempts to tidy himself up were a waste of time. Feeling no more satisfied with his appearance than when he first started, Jaime tidied and gathered his things, heading down to eat breakfast.

His eye was drawn to Brienne immediately, and he noted how uncomfortably she sat amongst them. Qyburn was sat at her table, and she looked none too pleased about that. Jaime joined them both, and if anything Brienne's discomfort seemed to triple just for seeing him. Ordinarily he would have relished in it, enjoying the hues of pink he could coax to her skin, but to think she was shamed by him killed his sense of humour.

"Good morning," he said, taking seat beside her. Their thighs brushed beneath the table and Brienne went rigid, like a rabbit in the path of a hunt. Qyburn made conversation, enquiring about Jaime's hand and how he was sleeping. He dropped hard to miss hints about hoping to find a place of employ in King's Landing, and Jaime smiled politely and ignored every single one. For her part, Brienne said nothing. Jaime wondered if Qyburn had brought up Pia again to wound her into this mutinous silence. When she went outside, he followed her, not caring that his breakfast was barely touched and Qyburn had been in the middle of a sentence.

"Go back inside," she ordered when she realised he had shadowed her.

Jaime stood and watched her packing her bed roll into the leather loops on her courser's saddle. The horse whinnied softly at the sound of her voice, looking over at Jaime when he approached and then going back to grazing on the yellowing tufts of grass by Brienne's feet.

"Did he say something to you?" Jaime quizzed. Brienne frowned at him and he realised that the root of her less-than-sunny disposition was him, no-one else.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Something about us," he elaborated feebly.

"Us?" Brienne looked so indomitable, and he had never really noticed that she was taller than him until that moment, with her staring down at him, "Why? What does he know about 'us'?"

Jaime sighed and wondered if she misinterpreted everything he uttered deliberately, just to get back at him for how much he enjoyed her blushes.

"What  _is_ there to know?" he replied with a half-shrug.

"Exactly," Brienne breathed. She walked her courser away from him towards the road then, and he still followed, feeling more puppy than lion.

"Brienne, stop."

She obeyed and fixed him with her burning blue gaze, her jaw set firmly and her hair tousled by the autumn winds. Jaime steeled himself and forced his words out before he lost the will to speak them;

"Thank you for last night-"

"Jaime, don't," she warned, but he did not heed her.

"I know that you let me close only because of your sorrow, and I would not besmirch your reputation by speaking of last night to anyone else, do not fear that. I value your friendship too highly, Lady Brienne,"

"Stop," she said, barely a whisper. He could not understand the sadness in her, why she bowed her head or why her shoulders slumped with defeat.

"Brienne, please, tell me what's wrong. Are you really so shamed?" he asked, stepping close to her, wanting to reach out and touch her but so aware of how unwelcome it could be, "I swear to you, only you and I shall ever know of it,"

"Gods Jaime, how can you be so bloody stupid?" she ground out through gritted teeth. She seemed as though she had been about to say more but thought better of it, turning away from him to mount her courser. Jaime grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her back to face him none too gently.

"You're the one too hard-headed to tell me what in seven hells the matter is!" Jaime replied, feeling his own calm start to slip away now.

"You will forget this soon enough, I see no point in continuing this conversation, Ser," Brienne replied, her lips pursed tightly. Jaime almost flinched at being called  _Ser_  so formally. Her insecurity - could it be jealousy? - dawned on him suddenly. She was struggling with the burden of shame and guilt too, yes, and that was all he had been able to see at first, but it was clear to him now.

"Cersei," he muttered, and if there had been any doubt in his mind, it was erased by the way Brienne reacted. She was truly terrible at hiding the way she felt - it was endearing, really. The look of resignation and heartache that crossed her face made his chest hurt. It only lasted an instant before her expression hardened again. He did not know what to say. He loved Cersei - had  _always_ loved Cersei - though it had been near a year, if not longer, since he had looked upon her, and in that time she had become so far away that he might have only dreamed her. He remembered well how she had set his blood afire with nought but a sultry glance, how he had  _ached_  each time he stood guard as Robert bedded her, how she had rolled her eyes and grown so very tired of his neediness and jealousy when he finally did manage to steal precious moments with her. He  _remembered_  feeling that way. Was it only the man he once was who bore such fierce love for Cersei? Was that still  _him_? He thought perhaps not. That man had died, slain by a glittering arakh. He supposed he would figure it out soon enough - they had less than a day left on the road ahead of them before King's Landing.

"Brienne," he said, almost pleadingly. He saw the muscle in her jaw flex as she clenched her teeth, saw the effort it took for her to look at him. He didn't know what he could say - he was not even sure of the truth in his own heart anymore - so he tried to show her with a gesture. He reached up to stroke her cheek, and when she did not shy from the touch, he tilted her chin towards him with his fingertips and planted a tentative kiss at the corner of her mouth, even softer and more feather-light than the first kiss they had shared.  _Her first kiss_ , he thought pridefully.

Behind them, the tavern door opened and the noise from the rabble within spilled out. Brienne recoiled and pushed him back abruptly, quickly turning away and mounting her courser. Jaime rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand self-consciously before daring to cast a furtive glance back over his shoulder to assess if they'd been caught. Steelshanks had strolled out with a few of his men and they were saddling their horses, paying no attention to Jaime or Brienne. Qyburn was with them, and he turned as though sensing Jaime's gaze. His smile made Jaime feel uneasy, but he did not let it show.


	10. Chapter 10

**Jaime**

They made good time the rest of the day, and Jaime knew he was near home from the smell. Before they even passed through the gates, the stench had greeted them. Beneath the familiar filth, he could smell ashes. The city walls were blackened with char, scars from the Battle of the Blackwater. The Dragon Gate loomed before them, swallowing the end of the Kingsroad. The sound of chains groaning and the metallic rasp of the portcullis being lifted heralded the approach of the Dragon Gate's commander, flanked on both sides by a dozen gold cloaks of the city watch. When he drew close enough to see his face, Jaime recognized him as Ser Humfry Waters. As a knight of the Kingsguard it had been Jaime's business to familiarise himself with every commander of each of the city gates. There was no recognition on Waters' face though when Jaime rode up alongside Steelshanks.

"We're to deliver the Kingslayer to his father," the soldier called as they approached. The gate commander looked pointedly at the sigil of the flayed man emblazened over Steelshanks' chest and fixed him with a hard look.

"Where is he, then?"

"I am Ser Jaime Lannister," Jaime told him, feeling the stirrings of humiliation. It only intensified as Waters recognised him and then noticed the stump in place of his right hand; shock followed by pity and disgust. The disgust was nothing new, Jaime faced it wherever he went, but he was unfamiliar with pity. It stung to realise he would soon come to know it well.

"My apologies Lord Commander," the gold cloak replied, "my men will escort you on your way to the Red Keep,"

Jaime said nothing, holding his head high as they passed through the Dragon Gate. Steelshanks' rabble followed them until the road forked off towards Aegon's Hill, where the Red Keep sat. Jaime reiterated his promises of gold and reminded the captain that a Lannister always paid his debts. Steelshanks' goodbye was not sentimental - a few gruff words and away they went, horse-hooves clattering against the cobbles, probably towards the Street of Silk to spend their promised gold in the plethora of brothels. It was only a matter of time before the whole city knew of Jaime's return - and of his maiming.

Brienne and Qyburn remained behind. He supposed the maester ought to be granted a boon for tending to him and making sure it was only a hand he lost instead of an arm. As for Brienne, Jaime hoped to bring her to the Stark girl at the very least. If he could enlist her into service with the Gold Cloaks or perhaps even the Kingsguard, so much the better. He did not know what was wise, only that he wanted her to remain close by.

The gates of the Red Keep were open as they approached; one of the gold cloaks had ridden ahead to send word of their arrival. A cluster of people had gathered to watch them, eager for a glimpse at him. They stabled their horses and Jaime commanded a passing servant to take Qyburn to the rookery tower and find him quarters there, instructing him to treat Qyburn as a guest. The maester thanked him graciously. Jaime was just glad that the servant had obeyed and had not mistaken him for a jumped-up beggar who had somehow wandered into the Red Keep.

Brienne followed him up the stone steps that lead into the keep, her presence reassuring and stalwart. Within, the iron throne sat empty and ugly. Jaime recalled sitting upon it, recalled the exact spot Aerys' body had fallen before it. This was the room where the Mad King had burned Rickard Stark alive in his armour while his son choked himself to death trying to save him. He did not like this room. To him, it would always be filled with the stench of blood and scorched flesh.

Jaime steeled himself when he saw the great wooden doors ahead swing open and two men dressed in the garb of the Kingsguard file out. He did not know them; he had been away too long. They were both dark of hair, tall and hook-nosed.

"Ser Jaime," the first of the two said, as though they were old friends. It was far too familiar for Jaime's liking.

"And this beast of a woman can only be Brienne the Beauty," he went on. Brienne bristled but held her tongue. Jaime's distaste for him was further reinforced.

"And you are?" Jaime queried, his tone frosty.

"Ser Osmund Kettleblack," he replied, grinning.

"And you?" Jaime asked the quieter of the two.

"Ser Osfryd Kettleblack. I captained Queen Cersei's red guard during the Battle of the Blackwater," he answered with a note of pride. Jaime almost snarled at him.  _Cersei, of course_ , Jaime mused _, thinking she's so clever, raising her little pets into the Kingsguard_.

"Saw much action, did you?" Jaime asked lightly, knowing full well that none of Stannis Baratheon's men had come anywhere near breaching Maegor's Holdfast during the battle. Osfryd looked suitably chastised, but before he could make any further remark, the doors flew open behind them.

"You!" Loras Tyrell had his sword in hand, a look of black hatred contorting his handsome face. It took Jaime an instant to realise Loras was not addressing him but Brienne. He had forgotten entirely the circumstances that had led Brienne to the service of Lady Catelyn, that Brienne had once been Brienne the Blue, of the Rainbow Guard. That Loras Tyrell had once been Lord Commander to her.

"Ser Loras," Brienne replied, her voice trembling, "I know what you must think-"

"You  _murdered_ him! He trusted you to protect him, and you left him to die, alone!" Loras raged, though he could not keep the quake from his voice.

Jaime quickly stepped in front of Brienne when he realised she made no motion to draw her sword to defend herself should Loras attack her - which seemed inevitable.

"Stand down, Ser Loras," Jaime instructed, in his most authoritative tone. The knight of flowers was little more than a boy in Jaime's opinion, but he was not fool enough to underestimate the danger he posed. He was both brilliant and brutal with a blade in his hand, graceful and quick. Almost as skilled as Jaime had been at his age - but not quite. Equally as hot-tempered though.

"You do not command me, Kingslayer," Loras replied hotly, grabbing a fist of Jaime's cloak and shoving him aside. Jaime resisted and grasped for Loras' blade with his hand, feeling clumsy and inept. He desperately did not want to display weakness in front of the two new white cloaks his sister had appointed in his absence - they unsettled him and he mistrusted Cersei's judgement in selecting them. They had not addressed him as Lord Commander, and seeing him get beaten down by Loras Tyrell would do little to put an end to their insubordination.

Loras was as enraged as Jaime would have if someone had murdered his lover and faced no consequence. He could sympathize with the lad. But he wasn't going to let him anywhere _near_  Brienne while he was in such a fury.

"She did not kill him -  _Loras_  - she is innocent-" Jaime grunted, struggling to hold onto the cross-guard of the young knight's sword and keep him at bay. As soon as he broke free, he would swing for her whether Jaime stood in the way or not - he knew, because it was what he would do in Loras' position.

"I loved Renly as you did," Brienne cried out earnestly. It was not what Loras wished to hear. He wrenched loose of Jaime's grasp and drew his blade back, swinging it in a fast and brutal arc that Jaime would have deflected, had he a sword hand. Brienne finally drew her blade, just in time for it to clash against Loras' before he could rend Jaime from shoulder to spine. He felt the rush of air on his skin, felt how close the blade had come to striking him. Brienne forced Loras' sword down, pushing forward so that he had to step back. Loras gritted his teeth and lunged, and Brienne only just side-stepped the blow. He whirled gracefully and struck again, this time his blade crashing against Brienne's when she raised it to block him.

The Kettleblacks stood like lemons in the doorway, and Jaime's frustration threatened to overwhelm him. If he did not  _do_  something someone was going to die. Brienne had fought Loras before, in the melee at Bitterbridge, and she had been victorious then. That was only a melee, though, where Loras had not held her responsible for regicide; for slaying his beloved. Where either one of them could yield and know the other would listen. Not this time though. He did not think it was in Brienne to aim a mortal strike at Loras Tyrell - not with their shared history - but she had surprised him before, and killing Highgarden's sole male heir would have had dire repercussions. He had to put an end to this as quickly as possible, without bloodshed.

"Seize her," he shouted, not knowing what else to do, "the two of you, seize her at once,"

Loras wanted Brienne dead, but he was not so far gone to his honour to murder her where she stood if there was another way. He stayed his hand once he was certain the Kettleblacks were following Jaime's command.

"Take her to the dungeons," Jaime instructed, not liking it but seeing no alternative for defusing the situation. The look of hurt in Brienne's blue eyes cut him to the bone.  _It's for your own bloody good_ , he wanted to yell. She did not resist as the Kettleblacks each took one of her arms and led her away.

"And  _you_ ," Jaime said, rounding on Loras, "once the fire has left your blood, go and speak to the wench. She no more had a part in Renly's murder than you did. She loved him, that is true enough. All you have to do is speak to her and know that's the truth of it,"

Loras' chest rose and fell heavily, and the look on his face was almost petulant. He sheathed his sword by way of reply and stalked from the room, leaving Jaime in the Great Hall, alone with the ghosts of the past.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *excerpt from chapter 67 of A Storm of Swords by George R.R. Martin.

**Brienne**

She had not cried since the day Renly had died, but in the claustrophobic darkness of her cell in the dungeon of the Red Keep, Brienne came close. Loras' fury had shaken her, and Jaime's coldness had threatened to break her heart. She replayed it in her mind for the thousandth time - for what else could she do in the cramped darkness but muse on her failings. The figure made of smoke, barely corporeal, twisting and writhing in the shadows; the sickening tear of flesh before Renly's eyes widened, filled with confusion and pain and then glassed over, lifeless. It had been over so quickly. Her heart had barely calmed from the fight with Loras when the sound of raised voices drifted from the narrow corridor outside. A moment later the tumblers in the heavy lock shuddered and the door to her cell swung open.

"Jaime?"

He still wore the clothes he had travelled in - she realised he must have come to her almost immediately. She watched him place the torch he carried into a sconce on the wall, waiting for him to explain himself. She felt small and tired and powerless.

"Brienne, I had no other choice," he implored, kneeling beside her on the filthy stone flags, "I couldn't have either of you killing the other. Loras is a hot-tempered whelp but he will hear your side, given time to cool off,"

Brienne gnawed her lip and looked away, still shaken. Jaime tilted his head, and the light from the flames combed fingers through his blonde hair. He reached for her and she gladly leaned into him, comforted by the way he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tightly. Her throat was constricted with emotion so she did not dare to speak, lest it overwhelm her.

"I can't stay long," Jaime said. With her ear to his chest, she heard it as a low rumble. She nodded to convey her understanding, and he kissed her forehead tenderly. It was such a comfortable gesture, as though he did it all the time, and it made Brienne's heart squeeze. Here they were in King's Landing at last, and Jaime had not dropped her to run to Cersei.  _He still may yet_ , she reminded herself.

"I don't expect it will take Loras long to come and find you," Jaime murmured. She only nodded, and he pulled away to give her a searching look. There was such concern and warmth there in the emerald depths of his gaze.

"I'll be fine, Jaime," she promised, relieved that it came out sounding convincing. He smiled at her and brushed his thumb along the broad line of her jaw before pulling himself to his feet.

"I'll leave the torch," he told her, "and my cloak. I expect it grows cold down here,"

She could think of no reply to make. It was easier now that she understood why he had acted the way that he had, but Loras' pain and fury had stirred up similar feelings of her own, feelings she would need time alone to process. If Jaime had not stood sentinel before her, had not positioned himself to take the blows aimed at her, she could not be sure that she would have raised her sword to Ser Loras, even if it meant her death. She had not even prized her sword from its sheath before Renly had fallen to the ground, dead. She may not have been the one to open his throat, but guilt weighed heavy on her heart all the same.

Jaime left her with a final backward glance. She didn't know when it had happened, or how he had done it, but she had come to trust him, though she could not understand him. She did not know what they were to each other now - the line between captor and hostage, friend and enemy, had become so blurred. They couldn't be more to each other, she knew. He had his vows - vows taken for a lifetime. She would not be party to him breaking his oath, would not participate in a tawdry, illicit affair. And that was all that lay down the road they had begun to travel. It was not too late to turn back, and she knew it was what she must do. The boundaries would have to be redrawn. And yet, when the door had slammed safely shut after him, Brienne pulled his cloak to her and wrapped herself in it, comforted by the lingering warmth and the scent of horses and rain and...  _Jaime_.

**Jaime**

He had been back in King's Landing for a night and a day before he heard from her. He had used the time to familiarise himself with the Lord Commander's chambers in the White Sword Tower, to read over the entries in the White Book that had been left by his predecessor, Barristan Selmy. He had heard news of Joffrey's humiliation of the man.  _Foolish boy_. The final entry on Barristan's much-decorated page detailed concisely in his small handwriting how Joffrey had stripped him of the cloak. As a boy, Jaime had idolized the man. The years of Selmy's of thinly veiled contempt had worn him down to only a grudging respect - the old knight was too proper to have come right out and said it, but he knew he'd been appalled at Robert Baratheon's instruction that Jaime keep his white cloak after he had stained it with king's blood - yet he would never have been able to take pleasure in the humiliation he had been subjected to at Joffrey's command. He turned to his own page and saw the expanse of un-inked parchment beneath the exiguous sentences under his name. Had he really accomplished so little? He read Selmy's neat lettering again, searching for something missing;

_Ser Jaime of House Lannister. Firstborn son of Lord Tywin and Lady Joanna of Casterly Rock. Served against the Kingswood Brotherhood as squire to Lord Sumner Crakehall. Knighted in his 15th year by Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, for valor in the field. Chosen for the Kingsguard in his 17th year by King Aerys II Targaryen. During the Sack of King's Landing, slew King Aerys II at the foot of the Iron Throne. Thereafter known as the "Kingslayer." Pardoned for his crime by King Robert I Baratheon. Served in the honor guard that brought his sister the Lady Cersei Lannister to King's Landing to wed King Robert. Champion in the tourney held at King's Landing on the occasion of their wedding.*_

More than fifteen years had passed since he had last done anything worthy of mention. Fifteen years spent burning with jealousy, existing for stolen moments with her.

Even after all this time, she did not come to him herself.  _The Queen wishes to speak with you, My Lord,_  the sevant that she had sent to his apartments told him. He was a smart boy - careful not to look at Jaime's stump. Jaime had him stay and help him into his Kingsguard garb. The familiar weight of his armour was reassuring and made him feel more like himself again. He sent the boy away and after a cursory glance at his reflection (which did nothing but agitate his nerves), he left to meet her.

She had requested he attend her in her private chambers, which was as close as Cersei had ever come to chasing after him. He inhaled deeply once he arrived outside of her door, pushing down his nervousness, and strode in without bothering to knock. She was sat at the bay window, looking out to the sea, her golden hair spilling down to her waist. When she turned to him, his breath caught. She looked so much smaller than he remembered, so delicate and fragile. She appraised him, her eyes lingering long on the empty air where his hand ought to have been.

He crossed the room without being aware that his legs were even moving, and fell to his knees before her. Cersei reached out her hand and threaded her lily-white fingers through his hair, stroking it back from his forehead.

"My poor Jaime," she whispered. He crumbled at the touch, becoming utterly malleable to her command. She guided him up from the floor and sat him down on the méridienne beside her.

"Why didn't you come to me?" she asked, a note of coldness creeping into her voice. He knew that for a warning, even though he had been apart from her for so long.

"I needed to rest," he replied, and it sounded like a lie even to his own ears. He did not know how to explain why he had not wanted to go to her after endless nights spent wishing he was by her side. Was it simply that he was finally tired of being the one always in pursuit? He thought not. He had subsisted on scraps for more than a decade without complaint.

"Loras told me about that beast of a woman that followed you home," Cersei sighed, her tone nonchalant yet her eyes watching him like a hawk. Loras, Jaime had since learned, was now his sister's betrothed. That little tidbit of information had not provoked the whirlwind of jealousy it might have done once. He did not know if that was down to Loras' blatant disinterest in women - even ones as beautiful as his sister - or simply because he did not care anymore.

"Brienne is not a beast," he chided, "it was her who brought me back to you,"

Cersei pursed her lips and looked displeased at hearing him defend her, however feeble that defence was.

"Most of you, anyway," she commented. It wounded him, as it was meant to. His punishment for speaking positively of another woman. His punishment for being away from her so long, as though that had not been enough punishment in itself.

"Well she's to stand trial for Renly's murder. Even if he was a traitor, he was still Joffrey's uncle," she declared.

"No, he wasn't," Jamie reminded her darkly. She often forgot who the father of her children were, when it suited her. She rolled her eyes at that and leaned away from him subtly. They had not argued often - indeed they had so precious little time together that neither of them would waste it with fights - but when they had, it was usually over the children. She hated him touching them, speaking to them, playing with them for too long. At first he had thought it was paranoia that someone would look at them with their children and realise there wasn't a drop of Baratheon blood to be found. Joffrey had never been his to hold. His own firstborn. He had brought the boy his first training sword when he was six and taken him out into the yard to teach him how to use it. He'd had it made especially. When Cersei had caught wind of it she had told Robert to send him away on an errand, acting as a glorified babysitter for some visiting envoy from across the narrow sea. He had not seen his family for more than a moon's turn for that grave mistake. In time he realised that it was not fear but greed. It was not right to think of Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella as  _their_  children. They were Cersei's, and only Cersei's. His gift to her. He could never be their father, she would never allow him that. But he had loved her enough to stand it, loved her enough to stand fourth in line for her affection and attention.

"You went to see her but you couldn't be bothered to come and see me," Cersei said haughtily, after it became clear he was not going to say anything more unless she provoked it from him. It sounded so petulant that Jaime almost laughed. Fortunately he stopped himself in time to realise she was being utterly serious, and there was a dangerous glint in her eye.

"She's locked in a cell, sweet sister, for a crime she did not commit, at the behest of your betrothed. I merely wanted to let her know her she wouldn't be left there to rot," Jaime reassured. He had suffered with his own jealousy for so long, watching her be pawed at and fondled by Robert while he was powerless to even look away lest his emotions be seen for what they truly were. He had thought it would be like nectar to see her go through just a fragment of the turmoil he had endured for years, but found himself strangely unmoved.

"When Loras is satisfied she's innocent, we can let her be on her way," Jaime soothed. He did not want Brienne to be on her way anywhere, but that was a discussion for another time. Cersei felt sleighted because he had not come to visit her, and for some reason felt paranoid enough to suspect he was interested in someone like Brienne. Of course, he  _was_ , but she had no way of knowing that.

"I suppose you've had lots of whores to keep you warm at night, that's why you didn't come to me," she sniped, revealing her insecurity. Jaime frowned, trying to follow her train of thought. He supposed his behaviour was distant compared to what it had been once. She was seeking reassurance, pledges of devotion and passion, evidence of his continued lust for her. He had no energy to give her any of those things. He wished he did.

"That's not true," he said, as one might correct a naughty child. She pouted at him, all soft pink lips and down-cast eyes. They had been apart before, but never for this long, never without any contact at all. When he had joined the Kingsguard behind his father's back, knowing Tywin would never have allowed it, his punishment had been losing her. Tywin had taken her away, back to the Rock, and Jaime had been left with King Aerys and his duties. The tourney that saw him accepted into the Kingsguard also saw Rhaegar crown Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty, setting off the chain of events that led to Robert's Rebellion. Through it all, he could exchange only letters with his sister, and never dared write the words in his heart. When they were finally reunited, his passion had been unrivalled. He supposed by comparison, he was not putting on an adequate display. Indeed he had not even come to her.  _Does she really expect me to behave as I did at seventeen?_

"Have you spoken with father?" she asked, changing the subject though clearly unsatisfied.

"No," he admitted. He had not even gone to see Tyrion yet, and his little brother had done him the courtesy of waiting for him to be ready. In truth Jaime felt adrift. He was struggling to recognise himself here, now. He had been in chains for so long.

"Well you should, before the council meeting on the morrow. Some brigands have set upon the Roseroad, nothing is getting through from Highgarden for the wedding. It's had to be delayed,"

She didn't seem too upset by that. Jaime took the bait - it was better than facing her accusations about his fidelity; "What is she like, the Tyrell girl Margaery? Renly's widow, isn't she?"

Cersei pulled a face and turned to gaze out of the window, offering him a view of her in profile. She was as beautiful as she had always been. It was odd how he didn't have to fight back the urge to kiss the smooth alabaster column of her neck.

"She's ambitious," his sister replied.

"You have much in common then," he chuckled, earning a blistering glare from her.

"I don't trust her. She doesn't bear any love for Joffrey and the peasants adore her too much. Father will see house Tyrell raised to be even more powerful than us. It's a mistake," she fretted. Jaime cared very little about such things. She continued before he had a chance to think of something placating to say,

"At least Sansa would have been simple enough to manipulate. Stupid girl. All it took was a promise of love and she'd obey any command you gave her."

Jaime bristled at that, but fortunately Cersei seemed not to notice his distaste.

"How is the girl?"

"As dull witted as ever. She despises Tyrion, and who can blame her? But she hides it well enough," Cersei sighed.

"Tyrion?" Jaime repeated, confused as to what his brother had to do with Sansa Stark.

"Yes, oh I forget how much you've missed Jaime. Father made Tyrion marry her. He tried to refuse but you know what father is like. He should have been glad, anyway, he's not like to find anyone else willing to marry him,"

Jaime wondered when Cersei had become this, what it was that had twisted her. Was it losing their mother? No, it couldn't have been, that was so many years ago, and he had still loved her in those years. Was it Robert Baratheon? Had  _he_ done this to Jaime's sweet sister? He did not know what to say to her. He wondered what Brienne would make of it when she heard about the wedding. He hoped she would not judge his little brother too harshly - he felt sure if she came to know him, she would like Tyrion. He felt sure of that. Tyrion had a kind heart, as she did. And they both knew what it was to be judged and found wanting.

"Is she with child then?" Jaime finally managed to bring himself to ask. She was even younger than Joff, and he wasn't yet fourteen, but their father's purpose in wedding her to Tyrion was obvious enough. Their child would be heir to Winterfell, heir to the North. And that was more important than the wishes of a cripple and a child.

Cersei gave a cruel laugh.

"He refuses to bed her. I think he is waiting for her to come to love him,"

Jaime felt a surge of affection for his brother at hearing that. His poor sweet brother. A spear of guilt lanced Jaime's heart and he forced his mind away from that old festering secret. _Let it lie a while longer. What's the harm in that?_ In seeking refuge, his mind went to Brienne once more.

"Has Loras spoken with Brienne of Tarth?" Jaime asked before thinking. He should have just gone to the dungeons to check if she was still there - he had ordered word to be sent to him at the White Sword Tower as soon as she was released, but nobody had come yet. Cersei's mood soured at once.

"What Loras does and with whom is of no import to me. I am not his keeper," she snapped. Jaime raised his hand in a gesture intended to soothe.

"Of course,"

"Besides, she killed a man she swore an oath to protect - she murdered her king. Even if he was no true king, she broke her vows," Cersei went on, and Jaime wasn't sure if the irony of her words was lost on her, or if she knew exactly what she was saying.

"There will have to be a trial. He was Mace Tyrell's son by marriage, she won't just walk out of the dungeon after filling Loras' head with some silly story about assassins made of shadows," Cersei declared, "we can't be seen to condone that sort of nonsense."

Jaime sat uneasily, every instinct he had telling him to insist upon Brienne's innocence. Cersei's eyes were so full of scorn though, and he knew that somehow this was at least partly his fault. They knew each other so well, he and Cersei. She knew  _him_  so well. His affection had been too obvious.

"Would the Tyrells really seek to draw attention to the matter? Their  _daughter_ is to wed Joff before the winter, she will become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Renly's claim was false, and they supported it-" Jaime argued, trying to make his reasoning seem purely logical. Cersei crossed her arms and scowled, and he could tell he had misspoken.

"I've had enough, Jaime. Get out. I'm tired of hearing you bleat for her. What happened to you and I being the only people in this world who mattered?" she asked, her voice low and vitriol lacing every word. He could see he had hurt her - he hadn't meant to - but why did Brienne deserve punishment, for the transgression of making him  _care_ about her?

He rose promptly, wishing he had never answered her summons. She was not who he remembered. The months apart had turned her into something else.

"You're not the same," she said as he walked away. There was genuine sorrow to her voice, somewhere beaneath the contempt.  _No_ , he realised.  _I'm not._


	12. Chapter 12

**Jaime**

He could see plainly that he had not been expected at the council meeting. Tywin regarded him with the same stony, unreadable gaze as always. Beside him, his uncle Kevan looked away uncomfortably. Grand Maester Pycelle made phlegmy noises as he cleared his throat and opposite him, Varys fussed with his many layers of fine silk robes. His brother was the only one he felt glad to see; Tyrion's face had genuinely lit up at the sight of him, and he had patted the seat next to his own in invitation.

"Dear brother, we weren't expecting you. Come, we can be bored witless together," he said. Jaime did not have to force the smile that tugged at his lips. He was surprised that Tywin Lannister did not chastise Tyrion for his insolence. It was hard to tell with others in the room, but Jaime thought he detected a new level of iciness between his father and his little brother.

"Are we... Will the King be gracing us today, my Lord?" Pycelle directed his question to the Hand, his voice thin and reedy.

"It appears not," Tywin replied, pushing around the heavy sheets of parchment littering the great oaken table.

"Should we not wait for the Queen Regent?" Jaime asked Tyrion quietly. His brother's smile turned positively impish, but Tywin spoke before he had chance to utter a reply,

"I dismissed Cersei from the council," he said, with a finality that gave no room for questions on the matter.  _And if you'd bothered to enlighten yourself on anything that's gone on since you've been away, you'd already know that,_ his eyes seemed to say. Jaime vowed to keep quiet for the rest of the discussions - it wasn't difficult, he had nothing to contribute - as they droned on about the treasury and the budget for Joffrey's wedding, the logistics of providing all of the wedding guests with seventy-seven courses for the wedding feast, the supply routes to the city, the strain on the gold cloaks with the influx of citizens and merchants, the coming of Autumn. It was all tremendously dull, even the bit about the reports of bandits on the Roseroad.

"...five wagons of potatoes, three of salt pork, two of golden Arbor wine, one carrying fine cheese, cured beef and saffron, two dozen horses..." Pycelle listed. Jaime and Tyrion shared a look that said  _when will this end_.

"Have you any idea who the culprits are?" Jaime's uncle asked, finally interrupting the Grand Maester's endless drone.

"Citizens dissatisfied with watching their children starve to death after the war that saw their crops burned to the ground, perhaps?" Jaime suggested, earning an acerbic glance from his father.  _Seventy seven courses_ , he mouthed silently to Tyrion, his expression exaggeratedly scandalised.

"Enough," Tywin said authoritatively. His sons immediately sobered. "These brigands steal from the King. We can afford no leniency for this."

The heavy doors to the meeting chambers stood open, as was the custom lest the king arrive late to find himself barred from the meeting. None of them had expected Joffrey to come, yet he strode confidently into the room right on cue.

"I agree, grandfather," King Joffrey announced. The council stood respectfully at his arrival, though Tyrion was even shorter afoot than he was perched atop his tower of cushions. He almost disappeared under the height of the table.

"Your grace," Varys simpered, "we had not expected you, a thousand apologies for beginning the meeting without your presence,"

Joffrey ignored him. His eyes swept over them all, burning emerald. Though he had not seen Jaime in near a year, he barely spared him a glance. The boy was taller now, though still a head shorter than Jaime was. He looked more like Cersei somehow.

"I want the gold cloaks to round up any peasants selling the same goods that have been stolen from me and have their sons drawn and quartered. They'll soon loosen their tongues," he declared.

Jaime was aghast, and his expression too clearly showed his horror. Tyrion's stubby fingers pinching his leg brought him back to his senses and he quickly masked his shock. He had not spared much thought for what kind of a king Joffrey would have made, once he had heard of Robert Baratheon's death. His thoughts were only for his widowed sister. Of how she had gone behind his back to have Robert murdered, when the task should have fallen to him. If he had ventured a guess, he would have expected Cersei to be ruling in Joffrey's name. It was what she had always craved; to be powerful. But even Cersei was not this cruel, this mindlessly ruthless.

"Your grace, there are honest merchants who would suffer, we have no reason to think they would  _know_ -" Varys began, his voice muted and almost quavering. Joffrey fixed him with a stare, and the eunuch did not have the courage to finish his sentence. Jaime looked to his father, thinking that if anyone would return sanity to the discussion it would be him. Surely Lord Tywin Lannister was not afraid of his grandson.

"If you are sure, your grace," Tywin said coldly. Jaime felt sick. What had occurred in his absence? How had Cersei allowed Joffrey to become this? From the way the small council members averted their eyes and fumbled their words, this was not the first of Joffrey's insanities. Jaime would not believe that his father feared Joffrey, but he clearly picked his battles, and this was not one he deigned worthy of fighting.

"Unless there is anything else the king wishes to bring to our attentions, I believe our meeting is at an end for today," Tywin concluded, shuffling his papers together. The council rose too quickly, and the shuffling for the door made Jaime think of rats fleeing a burning building.

"I would ask my children to remain; I wish to speak with them," Tywin said, almost as an afterthought. But Jaime knew better, knew it was calculated. He sat back down - Tyrion hadn't even bothered to get up. He had been expecting this.

Tywin gave Joffrey a hard look, but the boy King either did not see or did not care. He remained, reclining in the huge chair at the head of the table. Jaime wondered if there had ever been a king before Joffrey capable of looking so insolent. A moment passed in silence and the king made no motion to leave.

"Jaime. You did not answer my summons," Tywin spoke at last, when it was clear Joffrey had no intention of affording him privacy.

"I have been busy," Jaime replied feebly.

"Oh yes, everything must take twice as long for you now musn't it Uncle Jaime?" Joffrey interjected with a laugh. Jaime forced himself to smile at the jest.

"Your Uncle Jaime could beat the finest knights of Westeros with his right hand tied behind his back, your grace," Tyrion replied smartly, his lip curled with contempt for the boy.  _No he couldn't,_  Jaime thought.  _But if the rumour is kept alive, hopefully the truth will never come out_.

"I invite you to sup with me tonight in my private chambers. We have matters to discuss," Tywin said before Joffrey could think of a retort. Having Joffrey and Tyrion together in a room was as comfortable as playing catch with a jar of wildfire. Jaime recognized his father's move to end the meeting before a confrontation occurred.

"Of course," he answered, seeing he had no other choice. Though Tywin used the word "invite" what he really meant was "command".

"Good. Then we will talk more this eve," he said, rising to his feet.

While Jaime had his father's attention and the king's ear, he felt it would be remiss not to ask after Brienne.

"The woman I travelled with, Brienne of Tarth, I hear she is still locked in a cell," Jaime said, feigning disinterest, "it seems rather rude - she did save my skin. I trust I can bring the guards word from the king, or the hand of the king, that she is to be released?"

Jaime had not dared to go to Brienne again after visiting Cersei. There were spies everywhere, and he had been away too long to know who belonged to whom. The last thing he wanted to do was put Brienne in danger - and to make Cersei feel scorned was certainly a quick way to a perilous end.

"She swore an oath to protect her king, and she broke that oath. The woman has no honour. She's no woman at all, from what they say. I'll hear no excuses. The punishment for treason is death. I'll see her executed," Joffrey proclaimed.

Jaime's stomach knotted. He looked at Joffrey searchingly.  _My son? My blood?_  Joffrey had his eyes, his golden hair, his arrogance. And his mother's words. Jaime recognised Cersei's influence; he knew that the boy hadn't come to this decision uncoaxed. The Queen Regent had been whispering in his ear, and he was only too glad to listen should it result in bloodshed. Jaime clenched his jaw and kept his silence. There was only futility in arguing with the boy, he was bloodthirsty and craved the suffering of others. Jaime had a feeling that begging him would have only made him more eager to wreak misery. And there seemed little point in trying to appeal to Joffrey through reason, to remind him that one could not commit treason by betraying a  _false_ king. The boy was like his mother in that; any challenge to a judgement was perceived as a slight. Joffrey would only be susceptible to force, and Jaime had none to exact upon him.

The meeting ended in a daze; Jaime could not recall exactly what words of goodbye he gave to Tyrion as he walked on ahead, his long legs carrying him faster than his brother could manage to keep up with. He called out for Jaime to wait, but he did not hear. He heard only the thundering of his heart. " _I'll see her executed."_ He was on his way to the dungeons without thinking, had almost reached Traitor's Walk in fact, when he stopped dead.  _Cease this panicking and use your brain. If you warn her, not only will it do no good, Cersei will know. If you go to her, Cersei will know. Cersei has done this. She can undo it._

Joffrey would not be moved by any persuasion he could give; to him, Jaime was his crippled uncle, nothing more than another subject. He had been able to convince Cersei of anything once, though. She listened to him. He would be able to fix this.  _I_ must _be able to fix this._

* * *

**Jaime**

Cersei was surprised to see him there again. He knocked before entering this time, and her voice calling for him to enter had sounded like the ringing of silver bells.

"Jaime," she greeted tersely. Her annoyance was plain to see; she made no attempt to conceal it. She was dressed all in cream and crimson, her bodice gleaming with spirals of cherry opals. He let her see him gazing at her, lingering too long on her curves. She enjoyed his lust, enjoyed the feeling of empowerment it gave her. He knew that well and intended to utilize it.

"Cersei," he replied in turn.

"Leave us, it seems my brother has something to say to me," she said, dismissing her servants. The door had barely closed behind them before Jaime advanced on her, invading her personal space. She gave him a look half confusion, half impatience. When he drew closer still, she brought her hands up to her chest and tried to push him back. He took both of her wrists in his one hand and held tight, not allowing her the chance to force him away.

"You have completely lost control of him," he murmured dangerously into the porcelain shell of her ear. He pulled back and watched her roll her eyes.

"Joffrey does as I command,"

"You command him to slaughter innocents? Do you see the pleasure he takes in it, sweet sister? Or is that at your behest too?"

"Let go of me Jaime," she warned, twisting against his grasp. He held tighter and she gasped. He suspected it was more the shock than the pain - he had never hurt her before.

"I rid this world of one Mad King only to give life to another," he mused bitterly. Aerys too had been borne of a line that wed brother to sister. Perhaps it was their curse for insulting the Gods.

"Jaime," she wrenched her hands free from him and he let her, though he could easily have kept her there, "Joffrey is  _not_  Aerys," she hissed.

"Oh? I didn't see you at the council meeting earlier where he was ordering the executions of the children of any merchants who happen to be selling the same toys he has lost," he replied icily, "he was positively gleeful."

She did not react as he had expected - the words barely registered.  _She already knows then. She knows he's a little sadist, and she's either stupid enough to think it's under control or else she thinks it's how to display power. 'Let them hate, so long as they fear.'_

"Aerys burned men alive for imagined insults-" she began to retort. Jaime silenced her with a glare - such fury she had never known from him.

"I don't need you to tell me what Aerys did. I remember it well,"  _in nightmares still_. Cersei pouted and averted her gaze, her fingers restlessly toying with the lion's head pendant about her neck. He knew her well enough to see that she was struggling to listen to what he had to say. Had anyone else uttered these things, she would have threatened them with the penalty for treason. He did not know if it was his status as the boy's father, or as her lover, that granted him influence. It did not matter.

"The way they folded to him was pathetic. None of them told him no, not even father. What else has he done?" he demanded. When Cersei tried to twist away from him he followed her, not allowing her to turn away. "What more, Cersei? If I am to protect him I must know. Now, and from you,"

He saw her begin to fold at that line of reasoning.

"He makes enemies. It is my job to know those enemies, to watch them, to ensure they cannot harm him. I want to know why the council is so afraid of him,"

"Jaime," she sighed, looking at him forlornly, "he's only thirteen. And what sort of a role model was Robert?"

Jaime gathered his patience, knowing better than to chastise her for never allowing him to step in and teach the boy. However negligent a father Robert Baratheon was, he had not made Joffrey.

"I don't care for excuses, it is not my place to judge my king, only to shield him from harm," he answered impatiently.

"There was an incident at the castle gates. The smallfolk had gathered and were demanding bread for their children. Joffrey took his crossbow to them," she sighed, as though she had just explained to him that Joffrey had been caught stealing lemon cakes from the kitchens.

"And was this before or after the 'incident' that saw one of my men killed?" Jaime had been meaning to quiz Cersei about her additions to his Kingsguard, and this seemed as good a time as any. Jaime had read of Preston Greenfield's demise in the Book of Brothers - killed in the street by the rioting mob, trying to protect Joffrey from the chaos of his own making.

"They threw  _shit_  at him, Jaime. He had just said goodbye to his sister-"

"Enough. Joffrey acted out of vengeance, don't make excuses," he retorted. He had never seen the boy act tenderly to his siblings. Myrcella bored him, and he seemed to relish in making Tommen cry.

"I admit, he may need a firmer hand than mine. But father is here now and Joffrey really has been behaving much better," she said defensively. Jaime wondered if it was maternal blindness, or if she simply told herself the lies she wanted to believe so often that they became indistinguishable from the truth.

"And the decision to execute the wench, that's all his notion too?" he queried, scrutinizing her unflinchingly. He felt he had her on the back foot now.

She had the good grace to look chastened, if only for an instant.

"I'd forgotten about that," she lied.

"A Lannister pays his debts, Cersei. She  _saved_  me. What were you thinking?" he felt his anger rising again and raked his fingers through his hair, just to keep them from wrapping around her beautiful throat. "Don't tell me it's his own idea. He may have formed the words, but he spoke with  _your_ voice. What could have possessed you?  _Execution?_ "

She replied after a long pause, a pink tinge settling high on her delicate cheekbones. He wondered what version of the truth she had settled on.

"I spoke with the maester that accompanied you. He told me he that you seemed to have grown fond of the great cow," Cersei sighed. Her confession came through gritted teeth. Jaime felt a wave of nausea at remembering the look on Qyburn's face as he had met his gaze outside of the inn at Brindlewood. Had he seen the kiss?

"He was expelled by the citadel, Cersei. The man is deranged," Jaime replied smoothly.

"He told me the two of you had rented a room together at an inn," she explained. He kept his face blank - or so he hoped. Just the mention of that night stirred a longing within him he didn't care to inspect, especially not while Cersei was watching him like a hawk. When he did not deign to respond, she continued; "He said that you tried to pay a ransom for her,"

"We have deep pockets, sister. I owed her a debt. Now why would the maester be filling your head with such things?" he asked, curling his fingers around her nape and squeezing comfortingly.

"He offered his services. He said he could... inspect her,"

 _Inspect her?_  Jaime felt sick, and so sorry for Brienne. What a bane he had been to her since the day she had the misfortune of encountering him.

"Cersei, you can't- the man was stripped of his chain. He is dangerous, and you've as good as told him that the rumours about us are  _true_!" he struggled not to raise his voice to her. The potential revelation of their incest was not what truly rattled him though.  _Brienne will you ever forgive me for this._

"I'm not a fool Jaime," she snapped, "I told him there were to be no rumours about you breaking your oath with her. He sent word this morning - his examination found her maidenhead intact."

"Don't pretend you did this for my  _honour_ ," he snarled, "now you have your proof, I've been true to you. I've always been true. End the madness and let her free," he said, wishing it had come out just a little less pleadingly.

"I can't..." she began weakly.

" 'Joffrey does as I command', you said," he reminded her softly. Deciding to take a more gentle approach, he brushed her cheek with his knuckles. Her eyes fluttered closed at his touch, and she shifted slightly towards him. He picked up on the invitation easily; he knew his sister well enough by now to know what she wanted when she looked at him like  _that_. How could he refuse? It was not lust that compelled him anymore though, it was the fear that if he gave any pause, she would look at him and  _know_  he felt for Brienne. Cersei had been able to read him so easily once, it had been almost like they were of one mind. It would take more than the word of a maester.

"Show me you've missed me," she ordered in a sultry whisper. He could only afford the briefest hesitation before he pulled her into his arms, grazing her throat with his teeth and pulling up the hem of her dress. Her hands tangled in his hair and tugged, and his body responded to her the way it always had, ever since he could remember. She went to unfasten the buckles to his tasset, eager to free him from the confines of his armour, but he batted her hands away and lifted her off the floor. He wanted her, and for the first time it sickened him. Not because she was his sister - never because of that. But now it felt like a betrayal. He tossed her down onto the bed and crawled atop her, continuing to kiss and gently nip her neck as he ran his fingers up the soft skin of her thigh. She moaned and pushed against him, but he knew better than to give her what she wanted right away. He tried his best to play his part, yet the words  _I can't_  were on the tip of his tongue. But then he heard his own voice pleading with Hoat.  _Name your price._   _I'll pay it. Get her out of there,_  he'd said. And he knew he had no other choice.


	13. Chapter 13

**Jaime**

He had been asleep in his chambers when the note came. Whoever had brought it had left it on his desk.  _The maid of Tarth has been moved to the fourth floor cells. King Joffrey has consented to allow her to stand trial in half a moon's turn. All witnesses are to be brought to the court for questioning._

_All witnesses,_  Jaime thought furiously,  _there are no bloody witnesses. That's the problem._  He crushed the parchment in his palm and threw it away in disgust. Had he managed to buy her anything at all, other than a slightly more pleasant room in which to rot? Recalling his tryst with Cersei made him feel cold with shame. She did not deserve his false affections, but nor did Brienne deserve to die for his crime. He paced the length of his quarters, mulling over the facts. He was unsure if Cersei had done this deliberately; he thought it more likely she could not undo the chain of events she had set in motion. She promised Joffrey an execution, and he fully intended to have one.

Jaime's next step would have been his father. He remembered his promise to attend him at supper.  _Sorry father, I was so busy servicing my sister so that she wouldn't let our son chop my beloved's head off, I completely lost track of the time._ He doubted it would yield him the result he desired.  _Beloved?_  Had he really just thought of her as such? Jaime put the thought aside. Regardless of the presence of any feelings he may or may not have had for her, Brienne did not deserve an execution. The idea of a trial was equally as absurd. It was a theatre for Joffrey to enjoy her humiliation before he got to have her killed anyway. It was a bitter taste, realising that he held almost as much power here in King's Landing as he had done in chains, being led into Harrenhal.

* * *

**Brienne**

In the darkness, time had slowed to a crawl. It could have been days, hours, or weeks. She was always hungry, and meals seemed sporadic, not even allowing for a rudimentary guess at how long had passed since she had first been brought there. Eventually they had moved her out of the bowels of the dungeons, up to the cells that were reserved for political hostages and prisoners of noble birth. The small window carved into the top of her new cell let enough light in for her to mark time's passing, and there was even a bed and a chamber-pot.

When Qyburn had come for her down in the darkness, she had thought it was Jaime at first. She felt so stupid once she realised.

_"Does Jaime know? Does he know you're doing this?" she had demanded, her voice rising with a mixture of fear and outrage. She realised she should not have called him that. The Lord Commander. Ser Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. Anything would have been better than just 'Jaime'._

_"Who do you think gave me my orders?" Qyburn had replied with a smile._

Brienne shuddered at the memory, wrapping the thin bedding around herself tightly. She had left Jaime's cloak in the darkness, where he had left her. She slept - for there was nothing else to do - and she dreamt of Tarth, of home. She swam the endless blue waters with her brother, Galladon. He had been so long dead, and she had been so young when he had died, but she knew him in her dreams. He was broad shouldered and tall, even taller than she. Grown into the man he had never had the chance to become. He had the same sparkling blue eyes as her, and the same splashes of freckles across his cheeks. Those dreams were her favourite; bittersweet. She had been lonely growing up, despite the company of muddy-faced stable boys and fisherman's sons. They had abandoned her once she had turned twelve, despite her showing little indication that she was going to outgrow her tomboyish phase. All of a sudden it was an endless procession of noble ladies' daughters she was expected to sit and sip tea with, fine frocks she was expected to not get dirty, and _needlework_. If Galladon had lived, he would have sparred with her. He would have treated her like  _Brienne_. His absence in her life had been one privately mourned and seldom spoken of.

She dreamed of her father, too. Brienne was his sole heir now. It had been her duty to continue the family line, to rule Tarth from Evenfall Hall. She had forsaken that claim when she swore her oath to Renly, and it had been a worthy sacrifice. Honourable. Something that her father could have felt proud of. Now, though, she could not bear to think of him receiving the news. His daughter stood accused of regicide. Whatever Jaime had hoped for when he'd had her arrested, it seemed unlikely she would ever leave this place, nevermind see home again.

She had counted eight days pass from the confines of her cell with no visitors but her own regrets, before finally there came a muted rattling from the lock of her cell door. Her heart began to race at the sound - they normally pushed her meals through a slot by the ground, they had not once unlocked the door since she had been brought there.

_Qyburn again, with more of his tests._

But there had been no footsteps, no sound at all from the long and echoing corridor outside. When he had come before, he'd brought half a dozen guards to make sure she could not resist. Their approach was not something she could have failed to notice.

The door swung open revealing a plump, robed figure, face obscured by a large black hood.

"Here she is," a feminine yet distinctly male voice said.

"You have your uses, spider. Now scuttle along, give me as long as you can," Jaime replied. Brienne's heart felt as though a stone fist had closed around it upon hearing his voice. The plump man turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows, leaving the two of them alone.

In the eight days plus however long she had languished forgotten down in the darkness, Jaime appeared transformed. His white armour gleamed in the darkness like a beacon of light. The gauntness was gone from his face, and his golden hair shone. He was painfully beautiful, like a knight from a story. The only lingering evidence of his captivity was the abrupt end to his right arm. Brienne had waited for him for the first three days, but with each hour that passed and he did not come, Qyburn's words sounded more and more like truth. By that morning she told herself that even if he did come to her, she would kill him. But the look of sadness on his face gave her pause.

"Brienne," he murmured, crossing the room to kneel by the bed where she sat, "they wouldn't let me see you,"

"Am I supposed to believe that? You are Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," Brienne replied acidly. She did not allow herself to feel weak, swore to herself that she would not cry. It had been much easier to hate him before he had appeared in the flesh, looking so lost and so beautiful.

"My orders can't overrule the orders of the Queen Regent," he replied mutedly. She tried to take in his meaning but it was lost on her. _The Queen doesn't even know I exist._

"You sent Qyburn to... to do  _tests_ ," she answered, not knowing what else she could say. It revealed more hurt than she'd cared to share, and she hated that.

"Brienne,  _no_ ," he replied, reaching his hand out to try and touch her. She drew away from him, glaring. His face showed only open sorrow and concern, "If I had known of that I would have done everything in my power to stop it. It was intrusive and disrespectful. I am sorry. I am so sorry, for all of this," he sounded so different and it did not make it any easier for her to despise him. This was not Jaime. Where was his sarcasm, his perpetual smirk?

"Renly died. I am the only person alive who saw him die. I don't need your apologies," she told him stonily.

"This isn't about Renly," Jaime shifted uncomfortably from his position crouched before her and perched instead on the edge of the narrow bed.

"What do you mean?" she questioned. She had assumed Qyburn had been telling the truth; Jaime had wanted to prove to Cersei that his indiscretions with her had stopped before becoming too irredeemable. And Loras did not come to her and forgive her, as Jaime had predicted. But he had been too busy reuinting with his family to remember something like that.

"Qyburn went to Cersei. He told her of my feelings for you," he explained - or tried to. Brienne did not comprehend what he was saying. At the sight of her confusion, he sought to clarify; "His suspicions, I mean. He told her I bedded you at the inn, in Brindlewood."

" _Feelings_ for me," Brienne repeated flatly. She had undergone that intrusive torment, had been kept locked in filth and constant darkness, because the queen was  _threatened_ by her? Ugly, ungainly, masculine  _her_? It was too ludicrous. She shook her head vigorously and motioned for him to go away. "I am really in no mood for this Jaime."

"You're to stand trial for Renly's death," he said awkwardly. The softness with which he spoke did nothing to lessen the blow.

"I expected as much," she responded heavily, "I have no witnesses. I have no proof. I am indefenensible,"

Jaime took her hand and squeezed tightly. Brienne could not bring herself to look at him.

"When?"

He hesitated and she steeled herself.

"In six days," he replied, barely a whisper, "I sent ravens to locate the remaining knights of the Rainbow Guard, to have them give testimony to your devotion to Renly. Those that Loras did not cut down in grief joined Stannis Baratheon. They died in the Battle of the Blackwater,"

"They deserved nothing less - they were the real traitors, not I. I have no proof, but I know what I saw. A shadow came alive and... and cut my King's throat. It was magic, powerful and terrible,"

"I believe you," Jaime told her in earnest. She smiled weakly at that. Once he had been the last person in the world she would have expected to have faith in her, to try to protect her.

"There are rumours from Storm's End of human bonfires. This new deity of Stannis', they call him R'hllor. God of fire and shadows," he said. Stannis, or some agent of his, had been Brienne's first instinct after given time to mull over the events of Renly's demise. He stood to gain the most from the murder, though the Lannisters could only have been glad to see Renly's massive host scattered to the four winds in the wake of his death.

"What of Loras? If he knows this, why does he accuse me?"

Jaime shook his head, his mouth tightening into a thin line, "He does not know what to think. Cersei whispers into his ear - they are betrothed, a matter of political convenience to be sure. The boy is a fool, but he is in love. It does not stop simply because the one he loves is dead,"

Brienne had realised that Loras' affection for Renly was less platonic in nature than her own. She had desired Renly, true, but in a way so naive and buried that it had not dawned on her until Jaime Lannister had awoken a similar desire in her. She looked down at his hand where it lay atop her own.

"If I were in Loras' position, I would not have hesitated in the throne room," she confessed.

"You would," Jaime uttered with conviction, "you have honour. More honour than anyone I have ever known."

The comment was said with such sincerity that it was too difficult for her to bear. She tried her best to ignore it, and the blush it evoked. "You say Loras cut down his sworn brothers?"

Jaime nodded, "He was mad with grief,"

"If he faces the truth of my innocence, he must also face his own guilt. The men he killed were no more to blame for Renly's death than I..." Brienne said, thinking aloud. She pitied Loras for that more than she did herself. At least she had seen with her own eyes, could come to some sort of peace within herself that her actions were not to blame. However he rationalized it, Loras would always carry those men's deaths with him. He was still young, young enough for a weight like that to grind him down.

"And he's to wed your sister?" she asked, unsure if she had understood him correctly. She had heard that Margaery Tyrell was soon to wed Joffrey, of course, but the purpose behind that arrangement was obvious.

"My father's insistence. Highgarden and the Rock must be seen as utterly united. I'm lucky to have this cloak or else I would be the one that my father was tying a bow around before flinging into the bedchambers of one of the Tyrells. Though I hear that the ever delightful Olenna Redwyne has want of a husband," Jaime replied, his tone lowering suggestively at that.

"The Queen of Thorns?" Brienne uttered, eyes widening. "She's at least thrice your age, Jaime!" It took her an instant to realise he was jesting with her. She had met Margaery Tyrell's grandmother while in King Renly's service; the woman was feisty and sharp-tongued, making choice observations about Brienne's stature at first, but treating her with a modicum of friendliness - perhaps even fondness - after a time.

"You don't..." Brienne struggled to phrase herself, aiming to be as tactful as possible, "you seem not to mind?"

It was a poor attempt to be subtle.

"It was only a jest, Brienne," he answered darkly, the shadow of a smile on his lips.

"Not  _that,_ " she said, flustered now, "the wedding. Your sister,"

So much for tact.

"Oh," he replied, an unreadable expression crossing his face momentarily. She wished she hadn't said anything - it was none of her business. She knew she shouldn't have cared at all, nevermind enough to pry. "I am her brother. I will look after her while she is wed to a sword-swallowing, pig-headed ass just in the same way as I looked after her while she was wed to a great drunken sot," he said at last, giving half a shrug.

Brienne did not know what reply to make, his answer had left her feeling bereft, but she did not care to dwell on why. But perhaps he saw something on her face, for he hastened to add; "Not in  _entirely_ in the same way-"

The sound of voices drifting down the corridor outside heralded the end of their meeting. Jaime looked anguished. He leaned closer to her, so close that she could smell him; supple leather and something earthy and sweet - possibly sandalwood.

"I don't know when I will next be able to visit. I give you my word Brienne, I will do all within my power to free you. Whatever it takes," he swore. The noise from outside was growing closer - it sounded like the guards changing shift. Before she could make a reply, Jaime was trying to kiss her urgently. She turned her head away and his mouth landed just below her jaw. Her heart pounded wildly in her rib-cage, more befitting if he had lunged at her with sword than for a mere kiss.

"Jaime, no. No," she told him, squeezing his arm apologetically. There was no time now to explain why she could not bear for him to kiss her. There were so many reasons, not least because she had spent the past five days cursing him to all of the Seven for turning his back on her.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, his head resting against her neck briefly while he collected himself. "I had hoped we could speak for longer. You have no reason to trust me after all of this, but I swear to you I will not let any harm come to you."

It took discipline for her not to latch onto him as he got to his feet and strode to the door. The robed man had returned, if indeed he had ever left she could not be sure.

"Hurry," he urged. Framed in the narrow threshold, Jaime turned and gave her a look that made her shiver. She would not be able to close her eyes without conjuring that final image of him, brilliant in the gloom, the scant light from the torch casting a golden halo about him. There was something so final about it. Brienne shuddered and drew her legs up beneath her, wishing desperately that he had left some token behind - some tangible proof that he had been real, that he had ever been there at all.


	14. Chapter 14

Jaime had summoned the King's Justice, Ilyn Payne, to train with him the same morning he had received the note informing him of Brienne's trial. The sinister man had met him in the yard just before dawn, as Jaime had sent order for him to. He could not have refused the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard even had he his tongue, but he looked more peevish than usual as he saddled his horse. Being subject to Jaime's whims was perhaps not how the executioner wished to while away his hours, but Payne was a perfect choice for Jaime's purpose; sufficiently skilled in combat and - most importantly - utterly unable to speak of it to anyone.

The smithy hammers had already begun their cacophony as they travelled the streets towards the city limits. There were few smallfolk about so early, but as they passed they drew stares from merchants setting up their stalls and bakers who had begun their work long before the dawn. Impulsively, Jaime pulled his mare to a halt. Ilyn Payne glared at him with no hint of puzzlement or curiosity as he brought his horse back round to stop beside him.

Jaime climbed down from his saddle and sidled over to a vendor stood by a cart at the roadside. It was laden with pastries, cakes, fruit tarts and buns, their mouth-watering scent a delightful interruption to the usual city stench.

"Still warm. All fresh baked this morning, milord," the vendor said, though his voice quavered slightly. Jaime had never suffered open scorn - the name Lannister was far too renowned for that sort of indignity - but the smallfolk had never had reason to be fearful of him. Joffrey's madness had put fear in them, and with good reason.

"I'll take one of those," Jaime gestured with his stump to a pastry dotted with almonds, and then as an afterthought called to Payne, "do you want one?"

Payne regarded him with a face like a stone mask, not even a flicker of response passing across his features.

"I shall take that for a no,"

The vendor's gaze had caught on Jaime's ruined limb and his eyes had gone wide as silver stags. Jaime let him look without reprimand, but the man was so mortified when he realised he'd been caught staring that he didn't want to take Jaime's copper.

"Please milord, a gift for you, though it is an unworthy gift-" he stammered, hunched down so low that he was almost bent double. Jaime was no fool, he knew when he was being flattered. This was not flattery. It was terror.

"Are you attempting to bribe me, seller?" Jaime could not resist indulging. He hadn't thought the vendor's eyes could open any wider without popping out. His face had turned ashen, and his adam's apple bounced in his scrawny throat as he scrambled for something to say. Jaime dropped a few coppers onto the cart and flashed the man a smile that was meant to disarm, but he only winced and grovelled. Not until Jaime had mounted his steed again did the vendor find confidence enough to raise his head once more. It was an unsettling start to the day.

The ride out into the Kingswood was less than twenty minutes at a gallop, until the forest was so dense that the sky above was barely visible through the dense foliage. Jaime did not want witnesses for this. If his father had taught him anything, it was that to show open weakness was to invite attack. There were smallfolk in the woods, but few enough, and Jaime knew the land well enough to be able to avoid anywhere too densely populated. King Robert had so loved his hunts here, and Jaime had been duty-bound to accompany him on a great number of them. Without the raucous merrymaking of the fat fool's hunting party, Jaime found the forest to be surprisingly pleasant. Tranquil, even.

Payne remained impassive as Jaime chatted to him, even when he inquired as to whether he could still taste anything with what was left of his tongue. The question had occurred to him between mouthfuls of the pastry he'd bought. It had the beginnings of a game, this trying to coax a response from the executioner. He anticipated they would be spending quite a lot of time together, after all. He needed some way of relieving the monotony.

When they came to a brook, Jaime dismounted and left his horse to drink. Payne scanned the nearby clearing as he did the same. The ground was firm enough for their purpose, and secluded enough for any noise not to draw attention.

"Draw your sword then, Ser," he called out. Payne slid his blade from its sheathe; a greatsword that looked more suited for lopping off heads on horseback than it did for single combat, such was its size. Jaime drew his own blade, testing the weight of it in his left hand. A sword in his right had felt to him a mere extension of his arm. In his left, it was heavy and ill balanced. He had expected to have had some level of innate competence - swordplay with his dominant hand had been so easy, he had wielded a sword as comfortably as he had breathed - but as they sparred, he found that all of his instincts were wrong now, he could barely maintain his balance as he parried and lost ground to the executioner's advancing attacks.

He would move right when he needed to go left, his right arm kept forgetting there was no longer a hand at the end of it. Everything he had done so effortlessly for so long had become rhythmic and unconscious, and so to undo it took monumental concentration. Every action that would have once been instinct had to be reversed and mirrored.

Ilyn Payne knocked him to the ground again and again. Each gasped ' _I yield_!' battered his already mortally wounded pride. But Payne made him say it. He pulled none of his punches. The man's face was always a grim mask, devoid of expression, but Jaime suspected he was enjoying his task.  _Better he push me too hard than not at all. At least he's no sycophant_. It felt like a reversal of their verbal exchanges. Breathless and bloody, fighting to get back on his feet and pick up his sword, it was Jaime who was the mute.

By noon he was bruised and aching, caked with mud and barely able to make himself stand. But he had consistently blocked Payne's attempts to disarm (after having to pick up his sword no less than two dozen times after the man had relieved him of it), and was getting used to the feel of the pommel in his off-hand. The improvement wasn't much, and it was certainly less than Jaime had hoped for, but it was something. It meant he could get better, with practice.

It had begun as an experiment, but he found his mind clearer after combat. The pain kept him present in the moment, and it was a pleasant relief from the wounds of his mind. He insisted the King's Justice to meet him at dawn in the same place the next day. And the next. He trained hard, for hours. His progress felt immeasurably slow. When his frustration was too obvious, Ilyn Payne would refuse to spar, instead forcing through Jaime's guard with brute force before kicking his sword away. He would stand on the blade and watch Jaime emotionlessly with his pale eyes, waiting for him to catch his breath and calm himself.

"I feel we're becoming quite close, don't you?" he asked Payne cheerfully, after one particularly forceful incident. In response, the King's Justice picked up Jaime's fallen blade with his right hand and proceeded to dexterously moulinet with it. Jaime watched the steel cut through the air gracefully under Payne's direction in a way he could no longer manipulate it. It brought a bitter taste and he swallowed it down, aware that it would not take much to push him down the path of self-pity.

After their first session, upon returning to the Red Keep he had hoped to slink unnoticed back to his chambers to lick his wounds alone, but no such luck. Tyrion was waiting in Jaime's quarters, perched on his desk with his legs swinging off the edge of it, neglecting the perfectly comfortable chair behind it. He was poring over the White Book with such fascination that he apparently had not heard Jaime return, although he'd hardly been discrete as he dragged himself up the winding staircase.

"Yes?" he asked wearily, his manners buried somewhere beneath the molasses of fatigue. His brother looked up, and Jaime noticed the cleft of scarring that divided his face into uneven halves as if for the first time. He had seen it before, at the council meeting, and had overheard gossip of how he came to acquire it. Tyrion had fought many battles since Catlyn Stark kidnapped him, he knew that much.

"Jaime- seven Hells what happened to you? You look absolutely dreadful," his brother replied, his mismatched eyes wide. He shuffled off the desk and dropped to the floor, waddling over for a closer look. Jaime grimaced.

"It's not so bad,"

"Yes it is, by the gods, I'll fetch for a maester-"

"You'll do no such thing," Jaime commanded, his voice authoritative in a way he never usually allowed Tyrion to hear. It made him sound too much like Tywin.

Tyrion blinked at him, his eyes bright with intelligence. Thinking. Always thinking. And he was bloody good at that. Maybe he should tell Tyrion - tell him everything, all of it and be done with it - his head was hurting from more than just Ilyn Payne's beatings.

"Can you fight, then? Without it?" He asked, gesturing to Jaime's maimed hand. If it hadn't been Tyrion asking, Jaime would have gotten angry at the question, even though it was a fair one.

"Oh yes. Even better than when I had it. I should have had it lopped off years ago," he replied, trying to sound light. It fell flat, bitterness had crept in though he hadn't meant for it to. He felt ashamed for that; Tyrion knew what it was to be seen as less than a cripple, to live in a world built for the strong and the whole. How petty he must have seemed.

"Well the state of you says otherwise. Come, sit, let me look," Tyrion replied gently. He pottered around the room while Jaime extricated himself from his armour, musing that he should send for a squire to help with this sort of thing. It wouldn't be long before Joffrey followed in Aerys' footsteps and ripped some other illiterate's tongue out - Jaime could just keep collecting mutes to surround himself with and send on errands.

Tyrion looked to have fashioned bandage gauze out of some spare pillowcases and had set to dipping rolled up pieces of it into a cup of wine at his side. Jaime didn't recall having any wine to hand and deduced that his brother had brought that with him. He could drink men thrice his size under the table, and that much at least seemed to have stayed the same despite everything else.

"Now then, keep still," Tyrion tutted as he cleaned his scrapes and grazes with wine-soaked bandages, "it looks worse than it is. Just a few scratches."

Jaime did as his brother bade him, glad that he did not push him with questions he could not bear to answer. He was patient as he set about his task, though more of the wine went into his belly than Jaime's wounds. They did not speak for a time, until Tyrion finally broke the silence.

"You care about that wench, don't you?" he said at long last, his words carefully chosen. Jaime was surprised at the weight that lifted when he gave his simple answer.

"Yes,"

Tyrion just nodded. Jaime did not have the energy to ask how he knew of it, how he had managed to filter out everything else and get straight to the heart of the matter. His muscles were heavy and weak from exhaustion.

"I've got more eyes and ears about the keep than you. I heard of that maester's little visit to her. It wasn't Cersei's doing, you know that, don't you?" Tyrion added at length.

Jaime went rigid, searching his little brother's gaze for a clue. He had always been so bloody clever. He could read and write near better than Jaime by his fourth year. When he was eight he went through a very tiresome phase of telling riddles all the time, but Jaime had been patient and indulgent - there was not much Tyrion could best his big brother at. When it came to wits, Tyrion was as sharp as their father.

"Then who?" Jaime prompted. Tyrion seemed suddenly reluctant to part with the information. Jaime took his wrist between his fingers, forcing him to stop scouring dirt from the graze that covered most of his shoulder.

"It wouldn't do to have any Lannister bastards running about the place, causing embarrassment. Can you imagine the dishonour, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard breaking his oath - and with another Kingslayer no less," Tyrion answered at last. Jaime grimaced.

"Father,"

He should have known. Qyburn had ever been over eager to ingratiate himself. Why bother courting Cersei's favour - why dare cause upset to the hand of the king? The answer of course was that he simply had not. Qyburn was cunning, oh that was for sure. He wondered if the maester had been brazen enough to broach the subject with Tywin himself, or if his father had sent for him of his own initiative. Of course Cersei thought it was at her command.

"You're still avoiding him. What would  _you_ think, in his position?" Tyrion said, and then at the look Jaime gave him he hastened to add, "I'm not defending him."

"The only thing he will have to say to me is that I must step down from the bloody Kingsguard and go back to the Rock," Jaime replied, sounding bored, "He will cite Joffrey's idiotic dismissal of Selmy. He was too old for it, and I'm too crippled. Anything to get his heir back."

Tyrion's gaze was masked, but Jaime sensed his ambivalence. Casterly Rock should have been for him to inherit, Jaime's oath meant he could never hold any lands. They both knew Tywin would never concede to give it to him, though, no matter how blatant Jaime's lack of willing - no matter the laws or oaths sworn. But he could not apologise for not wanting the place - not even to Tyrion.

"Why would father want to harm her, though?" Jaime pondered, looking to Tyrion for his perspective.

"I don't think he does, now he knows there's nothing to her that could cause a scandal. Cersei was bound to hate her though, Jaime. I don't know how you couldn't have seen  _that_ coming,"

Jaime frowned, tilting his head quizzically.

"All of her life she's seen herself the same as you, but the world has told her different. She's told me herself how she used to slip into your clothes and be you for the day, when you were both small enough for no-one to tell the difference, playing at being a knight," Tyrion sighed.

"Bonded in my absence, have you?" he asked wryly. "She wanted to be Queen. She wanted Robert - or she thought she did," Jaime's answer was more defensive than he meant for it to be. He was not in the mood to pity Cersei for the misfortunes of her birth, if they could be considered such.

"And how else could she have power, have significance? It was the most she could hope for given her lot. Brienne wears the armour that crushed Cersei beneath its weight. Women like her-"

"There are no women like her," Jaime interrupted softly.

"Many would agree. I hear she's as tall as the Mountain," Tyrion responded, his demeanour changing from sombre to jovial.

"Not quite,"

"Did she kill Renly?"

The question disarmed him, for an instant he was speechless.

"Of course not. She loved him," Jaime scoffed.

"She saw him with Loras and flew into a jealous rage-" Tyrion started, his tone calm. Jaime recognized what he was doing, but it didn't infuriate him any less. He was in no mood for this game.

"Loras wasn't there. They were alone but for Lady Stark," he snapped, "And anyway, do you really think they'll slander Renly now? Not to mention the fit the Tyrell's would throw if Loras' name was dragged through the mud alongside,"

"She hasn't got any witnesses. They'll spin the story however they please - however Joffrey pleases - until it's no longer amusing. Then they will kill her. And father will allow it, because Tarth is an insignificant little rock out in the sea, and it will keep the other insignificant houses from forgetting what happens should they fall out of favour, or decide to behave like upstarts," Tyrion punctuated his speech with swigs from his bottle of wine, "And it will keep Joffrey from savaging the smallfolk at least until the wedding, and then it'll be too bloody late for the Tyrells to back out anyway,"

"Then what do you suggest? If she were to escape, she could never go home," he asked, willing Tyrion to give him the answers he needed. He was the problem solver, the smart one. Jaime had always acted first and thought later, but that approach held no water here. He had thought about breaking her free - he could bluster and bluff to have her released into his custody as far as the city gates - but she would not go, he knew. Brienne of Tarth was not the type to flee from justice, even the mockery of justice that Joffrey's court would offer.

"I did not get the impression she was any great orator," Tyrion said delicately.

"What are you getting at?"

"In her position I wouldn't allow any of them the satisfaction of the humiliation. She's good with a sword, I hear,"

"Better than most," Jaime agreed, nodding as he understood what Tyrion was getting at, "she can request trial by combat. Joffrey would never refuse such a request, he's too fond of blood sport,"

Tyrion nodded and Jaime could have kissed him. How had he not thought of it? Brienne outclassed all of the knights of the Kingsguard as it was now, even Ser Balon Swann, the only appointment to Kingsguard made in his absence that Jaime was satisfied about.

"Precisely. I'll see what my informants bring me, but I suspect the champion she'll face will be Ser Loras," Tyrion sounded wary, "and I needn't warn you that if it is, she's no hope of winning,"

Jaime clenched his fist, and a spike of pain jolted up his right arm from his phantom hand.

"She'll make him yield. She doesn't have to kill him," he answered. Brienne hadn't been able to bring herself to strike Loras before, but that could have just been the shock. He remembered suddenly, "She defeated Loras at Bitterbridge. It was how she earned her cloak. She was champion of the melee,"

Tyrion raised a brow, and Jaime could only guess at what cogs were whirring inside his head as he mused.

"Leave it with me," he said as he stood, his mind still somewhere else, "I'll think it over,"

Jaime watched him waddle towards the door and felt a surge of appreciation for his little brother, realising for the first time just how much he had missed him over the course of the past year.

"Tyrion," he called after him, and once he had turned with a curious look on his face, he added, "thank you,"

It was sincere, too sincere, and Jaime looked away uncomfortably.

"Don't thank me yet," came his little brother's reply as he descended the stone steps, leaving Jaime to rest.

Jaime fell asleep not long after, surrounded by pieces of his armour and bloody bandages, too spent to summon the energy it would have taken to drag himself to his bed. Dawn would break before he knew it, and it would be time to subject himself to Ilyn Payne's company all over again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments. I was so nervous about posting this fic here that I just kept putting it off (it was originally posted over on ff.net, which for some reason just felt less intimidating) which is the explanation for there being 13 chapters all at once! I'm glad that I did finally post here, because you guys are so fantastic and encouraging. It is much appreciated.


	15. Chapter 15

**Jaime**

He stalked from Traitor's Walk like a caged lion, his jaw clenched and his hand clasping the pommel of his sword tightly. The guards had refused him entry to the dungeons.

_"By order of the King, there are to be no visitors to Brienne the_ Beauty _,_ " the more brazen of the three gaolers had told him sneeringly. His outrage prompted them to share a look of amusement, stunning Jaime with the sheer insolence of it. They had no respect for him. If they ever had, he couldn't be certain, but one thing was for sure - men like that always used to save their mockery for when his back was turned. He doubted the shift in attitude was because of Stannis Baratheon's campaign of truth; the scrolls of parchment he'd had nailed to the door of every inn, tavern and outhouse between here and Dragonstone proclaiming of " _abominations born of incest_ " was scandalous enough to have tongues wagging, but it wasn't enough for people to risk their lives over. No, it was because he had fallen from grace. He had lost what had made him better than them. He was lower than ordinary; he was a cripple.

As if to hammer that fact home, his phantom hand shot tendrils of throbbing pain up his forearm. The morning's training with Payne had taken its toll. Jaime suspected the executioner too was feeling the after-effects of their sparring and it had soured his disposition more than usual. That, or he had located his enthusiasm. It was hard to tell the difference on a face like Payne's.

Jaime was in an acrimonious mood as he entered Tyrion's chambers and it radiated from him in waves. His brother greeted him by wordlessly raising his eyebrows and pouring a generous cup of Arbor gold. Jaime snatched it up and drank deeply.

"Oh good, you're already having a terrible day. I won't have to ruin it," he said lightly. When Jaime helped himself to Tyrion's cup immediately after draining his own, the dwarf sighed despairingly, "Jaime if you're going to drink my wine, please at least  _taste_  it. That isn't Ghiscari piss you're knocking back,"

"Joffrey," Jaime uttered.

"Ah," said Tyrion, "say no more," and he poured his brother another cup. By comparison to his own, Tyrion's living quarters were remarkably ordinary. Hardly befitting a Lannister at all. And so many books strewn all over the place - more books in his chambers than Jaime had read in his entire life. Between the familiar sprawl of his brother's belongings though, Jaime spotted hints of another person making their imprint on their shared space; a silver hairbrush, a bottle of perfume, a gem-studded jewellry box.

"What's going to ruin my day, anyway? What fresh hell have you uncovered?" Jaime asked. The wine had begun to warm him and had taken the edge off of the haze of pain that seemed to flare up whenever he tensed his muscles, or moved, or breathed.

"You first. What's he done now?" Tyrion deflected. Jaime recognized it for what it was, but he was in no hurry for more bad tidings.

"I was stopped on Traitor's Walk and told the King has decreed there's to be no access to the dungeons," he answered, pleased at how neutral he had managed to remain, "the guards took too much pleasure in passing that information along,"

Tyrion's smile was thin and knowing.

"Visiting anyone in particular?" he asked coyly. Jaime tried to glare at him but couldn't hold it.

"I put her there," he said defeatedly. Tyrion refilled his cup and pushed it towards him, a gesture of sympathy.

"I do all of my best thinking after four cups of wine," he promised, though Jaime looked unconvinced.

"You're just drinking courage," he observed, "for whatever you're about to tell me,"

"Yes I suppose I should just get on with it," he said, swirling his wine and staring into the depths of his cup. Jaime was about to prompt him again but finally Tyrion continued;

"Cersei has taken two lovers that I know of, probably three, and possibly more than that,"

Jaime's expression hardened and his first thought was that Tyrion had always hated her - hated her enough to lie like this, to try to turn him completely away from her. That wasn't fair though - Tyrion had only been a babe when Cersei had begun her torment of him. Any hate he had for her, she had fostered and nurtured at every opportunity. He studied his brother's face and saw no trace of dishonesty there.

"Who?" he asked quietly. He saw Tyrion contemplating his options, how much he needed to reveal.

"Cousin Lancel," he said. Jaime's intake of breath was sharp.

"He's a  _child_ , Tyrion," he almost laughed, "whoever gave you the idea-"

"Lancel himself confessed it to me. I blackmailed him with it, I'm not ashamed to say. I told him I'd reveal it to you on your return if he didn't spy on her for me."

Jaime did not know what to say. He felt as though he had been winded. He knew a grain of truth made a believable lie, that Tyrion could have been blackmailing Lancel over _something_  and telling Jaime it was  _that_  made it sound almost likely. It was also out of the question that Tyrion  _wasn't_  spying on Cersei in one way or another. Two half-truths to make one staggering lie.

"Lancel has been bedridden since the Battle of the Blackwater," he said, his voice flat. Cold. Tyrion looked anxiously at him and then away.

"Yes. It was before,"

He felt as though his stomach had turned to ice. While he had sat in chains in Robb Stark's cage, Cersei had already taken another man - no, a  _boy_  - into her bed. When he had said nothing for what was approaching quite a long time, Tyrion began to apologise.

"Who else?" he interrupted, not knowing if he even believed what his brother had already divulged.

"Jaime perhaps I misspoke..." Tyrion murmured. His discomfort reminded Jaime of his own long ago lie. Tyrion should not feel need to apologise for honesty. He softened somewhat, his posture relaxing.

"It's alright, Tyrion. Thank you for telling me," it didn't come out sounding sincere, but his brother's anxiety diminished, "I confess it makes things clearer,"

Tyrion frowned, "what do you mean?"

"She was so sure I had strayed. It betrayed her own guilt,"

"And hadn't you?"

Jaime paused to consider his brother's question while Tyrion studied him from above the rim of his cup.

"Not in body," he said at last. Before it could sink in he picked up his questioning again;

"Who else?"

"Jaime..." Tyrion began, his reluctance becoming annoying.

"You're worried I'll go straight to him and disembowel him, is that it?" Jaime gave a humourless chuckle. "I'm under no illusions about my combat prowess these days little brother. I've the bruises to remind me every time I take a step, should it slip my mind for even a second."

"That's exactly why I'm worried. I know your temper, sweet Jaime, and I fear what may happen to you should you see red," Tyrion sighed. It stung Jaime's pride, though Tyrion was merely being factual. "My man Bronn has been hiring sellswords at my instruction. One or two of them were already in Cersei's pocket. He pays them my gold, they whisper what they know into his ear. They know I'll more than match any price,"

"And what have these whispers brought you?" Jaime asked, growing impatient.

"Gold isn't the only way a man can be bought, Jaime. I'm afraid it's the only currency I have, but Cersei has another..."

Jaime didn't think he could feel much worse. He rubbed his face moodily before pouring himself the dregs of the bottle of Arbor gold.

"Sellswords? She's fucking sellswords? Tyrion are you sure? It's... She's the  _Queen_ ," he argued, "you're surely mistaken on this,"

He felt ill. Cersei had only ever belonged to him. She had hated Robert's touch, couldn't bear the attentions of any man but him. He swung between refusing to believe it and feeling horrified at how much sense it made. She had been so accusatory. Did he have any right to feel this way? How much worse this would have felt had he not found Brienne, had she not set the example that so opened his eyes.

"Osmund Kettleblack. Perhaps his brother too, I can't say for certain where he's concerned. She meets him at the sept of Baelor, under the guise of visiting with the High Septon. Why else would two supposed knights no-one's ever heard of suddenly fly through the ranks to such positions of power?"

"It isn't true," Jaime said, shaking his head. Tyrion reached across the to give his hand a sympathetic pat, but Jaime pulled it away, pointing at Tyrion accusingly, "You're trying to turn me against her. You've always fought, always had your little games, always tried to pull me to one side or another-"

"No, Jaime, I was afraid of this-" Tyrion closed his eyes, massaging his temples as he waited out his brother's tirade.

"I love you both. You are my family, I hold no-one dearer. I had thought better of you Tyrion, than to strike at her if it meant tearing into me," he stood up meaning to leave, but the floor was suddenly swaying. He had drank rather a lot more than he noticed.

"Clearly the rules have changed and you'll say  _anything_ -"

"Jaime! I am not trying to manipulate you, I don't enjoy this - but put yourself in my position. Imagine it to be truth just for an instant. Should I have said nothing and watched those two twerps parade around in that cloak when all the while behind your back-" Tyrion stopped abruptly as Jaime's fist connected with the table, knocking the fortunately empty wine cups over and making Tyrion flinch.

"I'm not lying to you," Tyrion implored softly, "I had hoped your trust in my love for you would overcome your pride," Jaime could not bring himself to look at his brother, the honesty was too wounding. Had it been a lie, had it just been a game Tyrion was trying to play, it might have hurt less. Whether it was true or not remained to be seen, but Tyrion certainly believed it. Jaime shook his head wordlessly, his mouth set in a tight line. He felt Tyrion's sad gaze on his back as he turned and left, cape whirling behind him.

* * *

By the time Jaime had been able to see Brienne, the trial was only six days away. Varys had proved a useful tool in gaining him access to the dungeons. No doubt that was a favour that would cost him dearly in days to come. It didn't matter though - it had been worth it. His heart had ached to see the hurt she tried in vain to keep him from seeing. It hadn't been enough time, of course. In her presence he'd lost his words, everything he'd meant to say was forgotten. He'd hoped to pour it all into a kiss, but it was no surprise that she had refused him that. The sight of her, unkempt and dirty though she was, banished all thought of Cersei and the things Tyrion had revealed to him. How could any of it matter while her life hung in the balance?

It had pained him to leave her there but the penalty for being caught would have doomed them both. Varys had hinted at another escort through the long-forgotten tunnels and secret passages, but it would be at the whisperer's discretion if it was to happen at all. He had been lucky to get even that out of the man, knowing his own limited utility. There was no doubt that Varys would seek to have his favour returned; he hadn't helped Jaime out of kindness. He had no ability to ponder that now though, he would deal with it when it became unavoidable.

Tyrion had sent two of his servants to gossip in the kitchens around the time Cersei's serving girls went to fetch her breakfast. He had them whisper of Brienne of Tarth's spectacular victory over Loras Tyrell in Renly's melee. A clever little man, his brother. But he'd felt less so when the servants came back to him whipped raw. Even so, it seemed Cersei had taken note of this gossip, for it had been declared that Loras Tyrell would  _not_ champion for Renly. The official story was that it would not be proper now that the Tyrells were set to join their house to the Lannisters. When the news had reached him, Jaime felt guilty for how he had last spoken to his brother. It seemed Tyrion truly did care for him, and far more than he gave him credit for.

With Loras out of the picture, Cersei's choice of champion was undetermined. Tyrion knew of her sell-swords (or rather,  _his_  sell-swords), and it seemed unlikely that she had any truly loyal men amongst the lot. Would she turn to that excuse for a knight, Kettleblack? He hoped she would. Jaime had not participated in any of the daily training drills since his return, but he had observed from safe distance. Osmund was frequently absent -  _with Cersei, most like_ , he thought darkly, his jealousy both staggering and shaming him - but when he did deign to show his face, he fought without finesse. The gods had given him a tall frame, heavily muscled. His combat prowess was owed to the fortunate happenstance of being born strong and male. Brute force, a certain arrogance, and quick reflexes. Discipline and skill would triumph every time, and Brienne had both in spades.

The other Kettleblack, Osfryd, was much the same, though not as imposing as his brother. If what Tyrion said was true - and Jaime had to admit that after having time to sleep on it and inspect it with a clearer mind, it seemed likely - it would be just like Cersei to choose Osmund. It stunned him that she would give her lover position within his Kingsguard so brazenly. Did she think he would never find out? Or had she simply assumed him dead as soon as the news of his capture had broken? He doubted that very much. Cersei and he had a bond that few could ever understand, and she had always claimed that if he were to die while apart from her then she would  _know_. Perhaps she had just written him off as never to return. It didn't make it any better though. He pushed thoughts of her away, sickened by the idea.

His own training with Ilyn Payne had yielded some results, for which Jaime was glad. The pain from each lesson was welcome too, for it kept his mind focused. He had missed the subsequent small council's meetings and had not yet summoned his Kingsguard to a gathering - though he knew he must before the royal wedding day was to arrive. Truth be told, all he could think of was freeing Brienne, and when his mind gave him respite from that, it was only to fill with thoughts of Cersei with other men betwixt her thighs. He had ever been a man of passions over politics.


	16. Chapter 16

**Brienne**

Her next visitor came to her but two days before her trial, by her estimation. There was no secrecy this time though, no hooded figure nor hushed whispers. Her gaolers opened her door after barking at her to stand against the far wall. Once she had complied, a man smaller than any she'd ever seen entered the cell. His body swayed with each step his twisted legs carried him, and he peered up at her with mismatched eyes - one black as night, one green as Jaime's.

"You're Tyrion Lannister," she said coolly. Tyrion flashed her a smile that was pulled taut by his scar. She did not return it in kind. Brienne did not trust Lannisters, she trusted  _Jaime_. She darted a look at the door, wondering at eavesdroppers and how freely she could speak. Wondering at where he was, and why his brother had come in his stead.

"And you're my brother's Lady Brienne," the dwarf countered, immediately striking for the stun. Brienne's mouth snapped shut and she felt her blush rising, much to her dismay. She fumbled for a retort, but Tyrion was too quick to continue,

"I trust you'll be asking for a trial by combat?"

He cocked his large head to the side as he regarded her. His gaze seemed to roam over her broad shoulders, her large frame, her musculature.

Brienne nodded.

"Yes," she answered, as severe as ever.

"Very good,"

It seemed that Tyrion Lannister had reached that conclusion long before her. He snapped his short fingers twice and called out for his squire, and a boy lumbered in not a moment later, his face red and shiny from the exertion of carrying his burden; a set of fine plate armour. Or almost a full set.

"Where are the greaves, boy? And the helm?" Tyrion scolded, though there was no anger to his words.

"I-I-I... They're t-too heavy-" the boy spluttered. Tyrion rolled his eyes and gestured for him to put the armour down. He promptly did, and did not dawdle in hurrying away to fetch the rest of the set.

Tyrion coaxed the breastplate from where it balanced precariously on the greaves, hefting it up to show her. It stood near as tall as him. On the breast, wrought in bronze and steel, were the suns and crescents of House Tarth. The craftsmanship was sublime, the plate itself imbued with a shimmer of pale azure, like the scales of a fish. It was a much gentler hue than the deep royal blue of her armour when she served as Brienne the Blue.

"I took the liberty of finding your measurements in our mutual friend maester Qyburn's little cowhide journal," Tyrion said, his smile sly. Brienne was embarrassed that he knew about Qyburn's visit to her. She had assumed his interest in her was purely to prove his utility to the Lannisters, but there had been fascination in his regard of her - as though he was looking upon some especially rare specimen. She almost shuddered to think of it now.

"He would lay me open just to decipher my inner workings, to find what grotesqueries I've got inside that keep this hideous little body of mine ticking away," he added, as if to explain his mislike for the man. Brienne took him at his word, more in awe of the gift he had bestowed than she cared to be. It should have made her suspicious, but Tyrion had an aura of kindness. There was no disgust in the looks he gave her, and not even Jaime had offered her that the first time they had met.

The joins of the armour were Tarth's pale rose, as was the trim on the pauldrons. The set was fine work, far more expensive than anything she had ever owned before.  _From Jaime?_ she wondered fleetingly. It was the work of a master armourer, and she could not comprehend how it had been made for her so quickly. The things Lannister gold could buy.

"I understand you swore an oath to my lady wife's mother. You wish to protect her, to deliver her to Winterfell," Tyrion said, dispelling any idea that the gift might be from his older brother.

"Sansa Stark?" Brienne could not mask the shock in her voice. Tyrion's responding chuckle was dark.

"Oh I had just assumed Jaime had already mentioned. It was an arranged marriage," he smiled wryly, "though who could imagine why any beautiful young maiden like Sansa wouldn't want some of this?" he said, gesturing self-deprecatingly to his scarred face.

Brienne soured at once, hands dropping to her sides heavily - away from the ornate steelwork she had been exploring with her fingertips.

"You'll not buy me, dwarf. I-"

"Oh come now," Tyrion clucked his tongue, interrupting, "you might not be very observant from your vantage point in the dungeons here, but Sansa is a wolf amongst the lions in King's landing..." He paused as if considering what to say, and Brienne waited, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

"Joffrey has been dreadfully cruel to mine wife," he confessed, his mismatched gaze lowering to the flagstone floor, "he would oft order her beaten by his Kingsguard in punishment for imagined transgressions. The sins of her father, of her brother,"

Brienne wondered at their names. Before she could hold her tongue, she blurted, "have you told Jaime?"

Tyrion's grin was brief and wide, before it was replaced by that earlier tinge of shame. "Oh yes, I told him alright. I'm glad you think so highly of him," he added, and he might as well have winked. Brienne felt her face growing warm all over again

"I have shielded her to the best of my ability, but I am aware of my... weaknesses. She needs more than my wits on her side. She needs a protector like you. I mean her no harm. I... I had hoped one day she might come to look upon me with glad heart, even if she could never bring herself to see past this visage of mine and come to love me. But she is ever cold, cold as the winter of her Words. A woman like you would never strike an innocent because a mad king commanded it,"

Brienne found herself moved by Tyrion's quiet dignity, though she did wonder how he knew what a "woman like her" was, this being the first meeting they'd had.

"What do you know of me?" She demanded, "Renly was my king. He is still the only king I bend the knee to. And I would do whatever my king asked of me," she said gravely.

"Even if your king asked you to murder an innocent babe? To strip a girl naked and beat her before his courts as punishment for her brother's victories? Renly was a foolish child, like Joffrey, but that's where the similarities end," Tyrion replied with indignation. Brienne mused on what he said, wondering at the extent of Sansa Stark's torment while kept hostage here. It was her duty to be a guardian to the girl now, to serve her mother by shielding her from the wrath of her king. It seemed almost pointless to resist in many ways; even if it was a poor play, there was no other move left for her to take.

"My oath was to Lady Catelyn's daughters, not to House Lannister," she said sharply. Tyrion nodded his understanding.

"And what of Arya Stark?"

"All the little birds in all the kingdom have been searching for her. Her fate is uncertain," he replied briefly. Brienne eyed him suspiciously but he revealed no more than that. "Sansa needs you  _now_ , though. Here. In King's Landing,"

Brienne held his gaze as she considered his words, her lips pursed tightly. The North was in chaos, and Sansa was the key to Winterfell. She made no assumptions that she knew Tyrion's character just because his eyes were kind and he loved his brother Jaime. Winterfell was a prize any would covet, and it would be unwise to judge a man's ambition based on his stature.

"There's no guarantee I will be victorious in my trial," she said evenly. Tyrion gestured to the armour he had gifted her with.

"I intend to give you at the very least a fair chance, and if you can't defeat one of my sister's lackwit sellswords you're no good to Sansa anyway," he said, only half in jest. At her confusion, he elaborated,

"Your victory over Loras Tyrell was quite spectacular. You were ahead of his every move - I hear he barely landed a blow to you,"

Brienne frowned and shook her head.

"That's not true - my victory over Ser Loras was hard won. He-" she stopped, catching Tyrion's meaning. "You've made it sound as though he could only lose. To force a different champion,"

Tyrion's eyes twinkled.

"And believe me, no-one my sister can pay  _gold_ will want to take on the giantress who annihilated the Knight of Flowers," he answered with a smirk. Brienne did not fully comprehend his words, only taking that she would not be expected to face Ser Loras once more. It was a relief. The raw grief and fury had been a sword she knew not how to block against, and he was well-practiced and at full strength where she was weary and ground down. It had been a close thing at Bitterbridge. She did not have confidence she could best him again as she was now.

"You've not trained with sword in many moons, are you still adept?" he asked, as though reading her mind. Brienne nodded, though she did not feel as confident as she would have liked.

"My lad Podrick will help you to don your armour when the time comes. I'll leave it with you so you can learn the weight of it," he told her. On cue, the squire tumbled through the door, arms piled high with the rest of the set of armour, doublet and quilted breeches. His breath came in gasps after having lugged it up the steep, winding steps.

Brienne took the helm from where it balanced precariously at the top of the pile. It was as beautiful as the rest of the set, if not more so, finely crafted with a double visor in the same fishscale blue.

"I do ask that you not attempt to fight your way out of here - it would make me look ever so foolish after I've gone to all this trouble," Tyrion asked, noticing the way she cradled the armet between her large hands.

"If I am victorious, I will do as you ask. My oath is to Sansa. For as long as she needs me, I shall watch over her," Brienne said. Tyrion beamed at her and clapped Podrick Payne on the back. The boy still wheezed.

"I'm delighted," Tyrion replied, clapping his hands together. Brienne did not return his smile, but he seemed not to mind. "I'll have chambers prepared for you close to my Lady wife's. Ah - I almost forgot you've yet to be introduced to her. We must all sup together after your victory; Lady Sansa, myself and you - oh, and Jaime of course - is that suitable my lady?"

Brienne felt uncharacteristically girlish at the mention of Jaime, and it got in the way of her reply.  _"I accept your invitation_ ," she had tried to say. Instead; "Jaime?"

"Oh yes. I'm sure we won't be able to keep him away," Tyrion replied, his smirk mischievious.

"I - Yes. That is suitable," she answered awkwardly, reaching to run her fingers across the fine steelwork of her new armour and avoid showing Tyrion her blush.

"Wonderful. Come then Pod, let us leave Lady Brienne to her peace," he gestured and the squire hopped away from the wall he had been leaning against, hurrying to open the door. Only when it slammed shut behind them did she feel the tension begin to dissipate. Perhaps things were not so hopeless after all.

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Brienne**

The guards had come for her after dawn. She had managed little of her breakfast of tepid gruel. Her stomach roiled as the gaolers marched her across traitor's walk, the irons at her ankles and wrists weighing heavy. She was not afraid - she'd had enough time to resign herself to it - it wasn't the fight to come that concerned her. Tyrion had been right about one thing at least; this  _was_ the Lion's den. Being made to kneel before a false king and plead her innocence was the part she dreaded. Performing in the charade.  _Put the sword in my hand and let us be done with this._

The courtyard was muddy, sodden by a night of relentless rainfall. Her escort of guardsmen marched her across, and the wind whipped at her fiercely once they had moved from the protection of the castle walls, making her skin prickle. The words of House Stark came to her as she shivered against the cold.  _Winter is coming_.

"Where are we going?" she asked, earning a sharp prod in the back.

"Nobody wants to stand outside getting piss wet through out 'ere, they're waiting in the great hall," the gaoler at her side grunted. Brienne paled at the thought.  _Before the iron throne? How many people will be there_?

She did not have long to worry before the reality was upon her. The doors were thrown open and the guards pushed her forward into the great hall, towards a crowd of perhaps fifty people all gathered beneath the steps up to the throne. The silence was oppressive, the noise of her chains scraping along the marble floor bordering on obscene. Dominating the room was the iron throne itself, as black and twisted as it had ever been, looking no less ugly for the boy king perched upon it. To his left sat the Queen Regent, her golden hair tumbling across her shoulders and her face an elegant, icy mask. Another Lannister stood stiffly to the right, all in red and gold, with a golden pin at his breast.  _The hand of the king_. He was the only one in the whole room who did not turn to gape at her when she entered. As she drew closer the crowd murmured, restrained and low. This was not a typical street mob, these were noble lords and even a few ladies, highborn folk. Brienne forced herself to hold her head high, to look at them and not lower her gaze; she had comitted no crime, she owed no penance.

A crude wooden platform had been erected, and the crowd parted to allow her to ascend the steps. Brienne clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking, wishing her mouth wasn't quite so bone dry. She did not know what to expect; she had never witnessed a trial by combat before. Tarth had few nobles and fewer knights. Her father's smallfolk were fishermen and farmers, their wealth was not in gold but in the beauty of the land, the simple honour of a living hard-earned. The Sapphire Isle was removed from the turmoils that swarmed across the mainland, any cattle thieves or drunken brawlers were brought to heel by the Evenfall guard and any guilty of more severe crimes were send to take the black.

"Brienne of Tarth," the Hand of the King spoke, and the murmurings of the crowd were silenced immediately. He did not raise his voice, nor was there any discernible emotion in his pale green eyes as he glanced at her. She faltered, unsure of what she was expected to say - if indeed she was expected to say anything.

"You stand accused of the murder of Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, Leige Lord to your own house. The sentence for such a crime can only be death," he continued. His voice was rich and deep, his words echoed throughout the cavernous room. At last, those eyes pinned her, and the weight of her chains seemed to increase a hundred fold under their intensity. "How do you plead?"

"I am innocent, my lord," she replied, her voice betraying her. She sounded small and pitiful and she hated it.

"Speak up. How do you plead?" he repeated sternly, louder this time. She saw jostling in the crowd from the periphery of her vision, and when she glanced down she saw him.  _Jaime._ She had to bite her lip hard and school her features back to impassive, only letting herself meet his gaze for an instant before looking back to the Hand. Jaime's father, she realised, wondering why it hadn't dawned on her earlier.  _Tywin Lannister_. He was so like Jaime, and yet so opposite. Tywin's face was hard stone, utterly unsmiling. Jaime was so quick to laugh, so eager to flash that razor-sharp grin. Not today though. In the brief look she had stolen, his expression had been drawn and his brow furrowed.

His presence gave her heart, and she replied clearly with strong voice this time;

"I am innocent."

**Jaime**

Jaime had not thought it possible for Brienne to look small. She was too tall, too broad of shoulder to ever blend into a crowd. The weight of the accusation levelled against her seemed to diminish her, even standing elevated on that wooden platform. He could see plainly that she was afraid but noted with pride how she held her head high defiantly.

He had slept fitfully, waking long before the dawn, but he had ensured not to arrive early lest he draw attention to his presence. He'd intended to keep to the shadows, to lurk as undetected as a man of his infamy possibly could, hoping that he could go unnoticed. His desire for discretion was forgotten at the sight of her though, and he pushed through the crowd without thinking of what he was doing. He knew only that he had to be nearer to her, had to be seen by her, so that she knew there was at least one person in King's Landing who believed in her. It was worse for being in this room. Had it been anywhere else, Jaime's unease might have been lessened to bearable, but these walls looked more like they had in Aerys' day now, stripped of Robert Baratheon's hunting tapestries and trophies.

Tywin's questioning was brief and clipped, and thankfully no longer than necessary. At first Brienne mumbled, her words lost to the thrum of whispers and titters from the highborn mob. As Jaime pushed through the cluster of lords, ladies and courtiers with nought better to do than ogle, he thought perhaps Brienne had glimpsed him, but it was so fast he could not say for sure. Either way, she found her voice.

"I ask the court to grant me trial by combat," There was no tremble to her words. A ripple of chatter errupted, but all it took was for his father to turn and glower and the noise died down instantly.

Tyrion had no fondness for spectacles such as this, but Jaime had caught sight of him leaning against one of the columns to the rear of the room. He was flanked by his squire on one side, and a knight whose sigil Jaime did not recognize on the other. Cersei had been just where he had expected her to be; presiding over the charade from her son's side.

"The court has no reason to deny this request, though it seems your accuser is not present to name who shall champion for him," Tywin said, casting a glance around the room.

Jaime did not know if Loras was absent at the behest of the rest of House Tyrell for political reasons, or if he was embarrassed to have been strong-armed into relinquishing his role as champion by Cersei. Perhaps a bit of both. Perhaps he had even come to his senses and realised that there was no way Brienne could have killed Renly Baratheon. Stranger things had happened.

"Ser Loras trusts me to speak for him, father," Cersei spoke up. "As we are to be wed, I have that privilege."

The sound of her voice had once quickened his heart, but to hear it now only filled him with vitriol. She put on a good show of being the dutiful daughter, waiting for their father to agree to hear her. She looked a snake to Jaime then, cocooned in golden scales. The Cersei he had loved, had longed for, had near murdered a child for; she was just a skin this woman wore. A shadow. A lie.

"Speak for him then," Tywin replied, bordering on impatient.

"His champion shall be Ser Gregor of House Clegane,"

At Cersei's declaration Jaime felt all the blood drain from his face. He scanned the crowd for his little brother and met his gaze. His mouth was drawn tightly, his expression neutral to all who did not know him well. But Jaime saw that he was rattled. Gregor Clegane was in the Riverlands spearing trout with his band of psychotics. The last Jaime had heard, their father's Mad Dog was tearing through holdfasts around Stoney Sept, carving the heart out of any rebellion before it could take root. He became aware of Cersei's eyes on him and turned, almost wincing at the satisfaction on her face. Evidently his feelings at the announcement had not been well masked, and she delighted in seeing the reaction from him.

It took more than a stern look to quiet the crowd's excitement this time.

"Silence! My grandfather has not finished speaking," Joffrey cried, but beneath his petulance there was the same excitement that crackled through the rapt audience. His boyish voice echoed through the chamber and a hush quickly fell. No-one here was fool enough to draw the king's wrath.

"Ser Gregor of House Clegane," Tywin repeated stiffly, and Jaime wondered if this was a surprise to him too. His father was a hard man to read. "And Lady Brienne, who champions for you?"

Jaime thought he detected a hint of mockery to his father's voice, and it grated him. He wished it was him up there instead of her.  _He_ was already a Kingslayer; they couldn't make him one again.

"I am mine own champion," Brienne said. Her voice held strong, and Jaime wondered if she had any idea why Gregor Clegane was called the Mountain that Rides.

"You are a woman," Tywin Lannister observed plainly. Stifled laughted from the crowd around him made Jaime begin to seethe. "No woman has ever proposed to fight as a champion before,"

"I fight as well as any man," Brienne replied hotly, "Is there some law against it? Why shouldn't I champion myself?"

Jaime felt a rush of admiration; he'd only ever heard Tyrion address their father with that tone of voice before, and even then it had been after a disgusting amount of wine. Another titter of laughter errupted, but his father did not hush them with a glare this time, nor did Joffrey deign to shout. He was smirking, relishing in the moment. They were making a laughing stock of her. He saw Cersei covering her mouth with a dainty hand as she laughed, and his rage boiled over.

"I am her champion," he declared.

Suddenly, Jaime had all the space he could have wanted and more. He walked forward and those surrounding him pushed back, eager to get away, to separate themselves from him lest they be mistaken for fellow sufferers of his madness. There was no doubt that Brienne had seen him now, and he almost wished she hadn't. Her face was too bloody expressive. He made his way up the steps quickly to stand beside her, meeting his father's gaze steadily. His skin prickled uncomfortably as he felt himself the focus of all that ire.

Tywin Lannister's jaw clenched and unclenched spasmodically, and Jaime half expected to get sent to his chambers without supper. But people were  _watching_ , and to humiliate Jaime publicly was to humiliate himself. The silence stretched on and on uncomfortably, not even Joffrey fidgeted in his jagged, sprawling throne.

"Ser Jaime of House Lannister," Tywin uttered woodenly.

Jaime dared a glance at Cersei, but she gave little away. Her eyes had narrowed, her lips pursed tightly together. Clearly unimpressed.  _Well sweet sister, for once I am not trying to impress you_. It pleased him well enough that the smile had been wiped off her face.

" _Jaime_ ," Brienne had hissed, but he merely smiled at her with a brilliant confidence that was barely skin-deep. She did not look to be put at ease in the slightest.  _If Clegane kills me, she's dead anyway. I'm the training sword she had to fend off a half-tonne bear,_  he mused wryly.

"Don't fret," he replied to her softly, and then to his father, "My Lord, and as you're aware, I'm no woman,"

_No, but you're a bloody cripple._  His father didn't need to say it - they were all thinking it. Tywin still commanded too much fear and respect for anyone to dare call it out though. Tywin's stare would have reduced an ordinary man to tears, but Jaime was audacious. To his view, he had been disappointing his father all his life - from the moment he joined the Kingsguard, barely a man-grown.

Tywin had no other play left to make, not from his current position at least. There was no way to refuse that wouldn't reflect badly on their family name. Jaime knew he was going to catch hell for this, but there was little his father could do to him that Gregor Clegane could not, come the duel. He had never seen such cold fury on his father's face, not even when he had learned of Tyrion's first marriage.

"Do you accept Ser Jaime Lannister as your champion, Lady Brienne?" his father demanded, making it sound like a challenge. This was where Jaime knew his impulsive declaration could go wrong - Brienne was hardly the sort to allow (or indeed  _need_ ) a man to come to her rescue. He met her eyes, hoping he looked as though he had a plan and this was part of it. She was hesitant.

"I don't need you to fight my battles Jaime," she whispered, her eyes flashing with anger. This was neither the time nor the place to try to sway her.  _Trust me_ , he wanted to implore, but his father spoke again impatiently;

"Lady Brienne?"

She glanced at him uncertainly, and it must have been on faith alone that she came to her decision.

"Yes. Yes, I accept. Ser Jaime Lannister will be my champion,"

The rush of relief at having successfully manoeuvred her out of the Mountain's path would be short-lived, he knew, but he was momentarily elated.

"Then you shall prepare for combat tomorrow at noon," Tywin decreed, looking at Jaime as though he was something freakish, a specimen he had never before laid eyes upon. It was a look that told Jaime there was to be no coming back from this.

"Well... " Joffrey piped up, "At least I'll have  _half_ an uncle still alive come my wedding day," he remarked dryly.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for your patience! I know it's been a while, I hope you're still sticking with me.

**Jaime**

The pink fingers of dawn stretched from the east, and the air was chill as he crossed the courtyards and made his way to the sept. It had been a very long time since Jaime had looked to the gods for anything. He was never a pious man, never one to take sermons and being preached to well. He didn't owe the Warrior thanks for his victories, nor the Crone for his wisdom. Both had been fought for and hard won, not gifted by distant deities. But he was a man adrift in this once familiar place, his options so exhausted that he would come to pray after all these years. They would give nothing to a man such as him, he felt sure, but for Brienne? She was every bit the Warrior. She shielded the weak, honoured the dead, fought for what was right - and not because the gods bade her to, no, but because her heart told her it was the way. Every bit the Warrior, every bit the Maid. In a matter of hours he would seal her fate... His stomach was a hard knot.

On his way he saw a slight, timid figure cloaked in Lannister hues; her nobles' finery led him to believe she could not be a servant - and at once her auburn hair and mourner's eyes became familiar to him.

"Sansa," he called to her in surprise. The girl - though really, she had become a woman in the time that had elapsed since he had seen her last - flinched as if he had called her bitch instead of by her name. It was only a flicker, there and then gone, but he saw. She curtseyed and greeted him, "my Lord,"

"Going to the Godswood?"

Sansa seemed unable to look at him, pale and almost trembling, "yes my Lord,"

"I don't often find cause to seek out the divine," Jaime told her, aware that she was uncomfortable in his presence, aware that she must have hated him as she hated all Lannisters. But she was practically family now, and he had sworn to her mother... "I am on my way to the sept though. Looking for the gods,"

"I hope that you find them, my Lord," she answered, an edge to her voice that made him smile. Still a Wolf, somewhere hidden in her lamb's disguise.

"I might, and sooner than I'd like. I fight the Mountain at noon. Will you be there to watch?" Jaime cocked his head at her. Her eyes landed on his then, wide and fearful.

"No, my Lord. I have seen enough blood shed. I don't think I can stomach any more,"

Jaime, in that instant, utterly understood Tyrion's desire to protect her. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her of her brave mother, of his vow, to try and convince her that she had more allies than she knew here now. It was a shallow whim, to want to be her hero when by noon he could well lie disemboweled at the foot of the Iron Throne. He gave a bitter smile instead.

"I will pray to them for you. The old gods," Sansa said softly, "In case the Seven do not hear you,"

_Pray for my victory or for my defeat?_  Jaime thought wryly.

"You are kind, Lady Sansa. It would be terribly unchivalrous of me not to escort you to the Godswood," he began, and saw that flicker again before she could cover it. She had no wish to be in his company for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, "but I think perhaps the solitude is sort of the point, isn't it?"

Sansa curtseyed again, her relief apparent. For a moment Jaime simply stood and watched her go along the path, the breaking dawncasting a long and solitary shadow behind her.

In the Sept he lit a candle before the Warrior first, but it was at the Maiden where he knelt to pray. The statue that represented her was willowy and beautiful, with wide set eyes and a gently pouting mouth. Brienne was just as beautiful, though not in the same ways. His heart hurt. Jaime bowed his head and tried to think of the prayers he used to offer as a boy, tried to imagine there was more to the carved idols around the room than just stone, something that would inspire his faith. He could not find what he sought, and hoped that Sansa Stark's efforts would serve him better than his own.

* * *

Tyrion's squire, Podrick Payne, helped Jaime with his armour. He kept his bloody mouth shut, which endeared him to Jaime greatly. He would have made some quip about linguistics not being the strong suite of House Payne, had he not felt so highly strung.

Jaime did not wear his Kingsguard plate for combat today, but instead a set of lighter golden scaled armour. He knew he would need to be fast on his feet if he had any hopes of winning this; speed was the one thing he knew Gregor Clegane would never match him on, one-handed or not. He had instructed a servant to fetch him a kerchief of rose and blue to knot around his arm. Tarth's colours. Bloody fool, Tyrion had scolded. Jaime thought his little brother looked like he'd gotten even less sleep than he had.

He was too edgy to make small talk and Tyrion's nervous fussing had grated his fraying nerves so he sent him away. With much reluctance and hand-wringing, Tyrion had left him an hour before noon.

Part of him expected Cersei to come, to plead with him not to be so foolish. A small, nagging, buried part of him was hurt that she did not. Cersei could revoke these accusations against Brienne whenever she chose to - but she did not. He supposed he could stand down as Brienne's champion whenever he chose to, in Cersei's opinion. And then he ceased to dwell on her any longer and thought only of Brienne.

When he won her freedom he was going to tell her how he felt. He was going to kiss her, going to coax blotchy pink blushes to her cheeks as he whispered to her just exactly how he'd dreamt of their night together in Brindlewood near every night since. He was going to lay his sins bare to her and be absolved by her goodness. Together, they would keep Sansa safe, they would find Arya. _Let the gods be good._

"It's t-time, milord," Podrick mumbled.

* * *

It looked as though every noble in King's Landing had managed to crowd into the great hall by the time he arrived. They were all there, eager for their bloodsport, their pound of flesh. Jaime wondered how much of it was for the spectacle and how much of it was to see how well the crippled Kingslayer fought. How well he died.

There was no sign of humanity from the 8ft monster standing opposite him encased in full plate. He said nothing, made no gesture, did not even turn to look at Brienne when the crier called out her alleged crimes. Jaime did. He smiled, and it came easy and sure. The concern in her eyes did not waver though. She didn't understand, he realised. Blindly, she had allowed him to champion her. It was not fear that kept her from fighting this battle, but faith.I _have a plan_  his gaze had told her, and she had acquiesced.  _Not dying, now there's as good a plan as any_ , he thought ruefully.

He did not spare a glance for his father, for Cersei, or for Joffrey, sitting elevated from the crowd and within a phalanx of white-clad knights. His brothers, once. His family, once.

At the announcer's cry, the giant suit of armour ground to life like a clockwork monster, armour grinding and clanking, beginning to circle towards Jaime. He was slow - that was good. Very good. Jaime slid his helm closed, though it would be of little protection against Clegane's strikes.

_No matter, as long as he can't catch me._

Jaime watched his lumbering approach with a smirk, feigning confidence he no longer had. The Mountain raised his humongous sword and sliced the air with a grunt - Jaime easily sidestepped the predictable strike and moved into the giant's left, landing a glancing hit to his elbow before falling back. He did not dare dally within his reach for long.

Clegane rounded for a second attack, and again Jaime darted and weaved waspishly between the blows, the air around him thrumming as Clegane's claymore sliced through it. It took every bit of Jaime's concentration to move the right way, to favour his left side when all of his instincts screamed to the contrary.

It was working though - he was staying clear of Clegane's attacks, and he dared venture he was making it look quite easy.

"Are you even trying?" Jaime goaded as he slipped away from another jab. It was all well and good to evade, but he couldn't do it indefinitely and just hope Clegane would collapse of fatigue. He had to get him to trip up, to give him an opening for an attack. Charging headlong into him with his sword swinging would only get him killed.

"Stop dancing about," the Mountain growled, making a grab for him. Jaime twisted deftly aside and landed a perfect strike to the inside of his opponent's wrist with his elbow, loosening that monstrous sword-hand grip. He followed it up instantaneously with a strike that wrenched Clegane's blade loose from his fist.

Clegane gave a roar of frustration, but to Jaime's dismay he did not turn and expose his side in pursuit of his dropped weapon as he had wanted; no. He  _lunged_. Jaime parried but not quickly enough; the giant of a man had him, one steel fist enclosing his neck. His gorget saved his throat from being crushed, but to his horror Jaime felt it pressing tighter against his skin.  _He's crushing the steel_ , he thought in stunned amazement. Before he could worry too much at that, the mountain's other fist thrust into his abdomen, arm pistoning to land a volley of blows that drove the wind out of him. There was only chainmail protecting his ribs; he had never intended to allow the Mountain to land any of his hits.

Before Jaime could so much as drag in a desperate gulp of air, the Mountain let go of his throat, dropping him to a ground that he hadn't even realized he'd left behind. It sent him off balance, and he tried to steady himself too late. Clegane backhanded him with such force that his head snapped back viciously, ringing filled his ears, and the very metal of his helm seemed to drive deep into his skull. The strap that secured it beneath his chin flung apart as though made of paper.

It was an insolent strike, the kind landed on wayward children or cheap whores, but with enough freakish strength behind it to near shatter steel. The mechanism that locked his visor had broken at the impact and it fell askew across his face, obscuring his vision. Instinctively he wrenched it away; it would provide no resistance should Clegane manage to land a hit anyway. He had to be faster, always faster and always one step ahead. He could not do that half-blind.

The gasp from the enrapt mob, the clatter of the pieces of his helm hitting the ground, the haggard, pained rasps of his own breath; Jaime was deaf to all. Blood trickled in rivulets from his ear down his neck.

"Yield," Clegane snarled, his voice distorted to Jaime's still ringing ears. It was clear to him then that Clegane was not engaging him in this, was refusing to take him seriously. Clegane was a dog, and even rabid dogs would abide their masters, else they were put down like all useless, dangerous animals. Jaime's father was this dog's master, and animal-stupid though he was, he knew killing his master's son would be a death sentence for him. At least, Jaime hoped as much. Given the fact that Clegane could have smashed his fist into his unarmoured skull and ended it that instant without need of his yield, he suspected he had the right of it.

"Pick up your sword, Ser," Jaime bit back. Clegane went to slap him again, the way one might swat at a fly. Jaime twisted gracefully out of range before stealing forward again, fast as lightning. He darted beneath the giant's raised arm and plunged his sword down savagely into the joins of his armour behind the knee.

His blade wouldn't come loose, and he didn't waste time trying to wrench it out. He only had an instant to escape from Clegane's monstrous range. He rolled, staying low to avoid the mountain's pinwheeling arms. A sound barely human reverberated from within the great helm.

Rising, he felt an awful grinding pain from his chest where Clegane had landed his punches. It wasn't in his ribs but deeper, more sinister. He knew how to breathe for combat, knew to keep his air steady and disciplined despite the urge to gasp and pant, in fact it was never something he'd had to consciously  _think_ of before. But now his breath was shallow, desperate. His lungs wouldn't fill - for a delirious instant he was transported back to the sparkling sea that cocooned Casterly Rock, to the scorching summer days when he had boasted to Cersei that he would dive down to the cerulean depths and bring her pearls to take with her back to King's Landing.

_There aren't any pearls,_  she had sighed from the crystalline shallows, utterly bored by him and his boyishness. She always seemed to talk about Rhaegar those days,  _the Prince_  this and  _his Grace_ that.

Deep below the surface, the sounds of the surf and the gulls were gone. There was only the muted rush of bubbles from his lips and the ever present rumble of the ocean. He had swum too deep in his urgency to impress, in his need for Cersei's regard. The first pull of cool sea-water into his air-starved lungs had been like fire. And here it was again, like drowning in reverse.

He dared a glance while Clegane still frothed with fury, reaching this way and that to try and grasp the blade wedged in the meat of his calf. He had her regard now, his sweet sister. Her eyes were coldly fixed to him, her head raised so that she looked down upon him. She dabbed at her dry cheeks with a red-and-gold silk handkerchief and he could stand to look no more.

The Mountain was on the move again, having finally torn out Jaime's blade, like a splinter to an aurochs. His gait was cumbersome, favouring his left side as he crossed to pick up his monstrous claymore from where it had gone skittering after Jaime's disarm.

"Sword," Jaime called to the mob, his voice rasping. It took more of his breath than he liked, especially when he heard it echoed back to him by the cavernous room. The crowd did not cheer or chant. The silence was more intimidating than any drunken rabble.  _It is the sound of a room about to witness an execution_ , he thought.

The men of his Kingsguard were a phalanx around the boy King and Queen Regent, their stone gazes almost vacant in their utter detachment.  _I am not their Lord Commander here,_  he thought, ice filling his belly. No other dared to unsheathe their blade and offer it. He sensed more than saw Brienne's growing outrage - he couldn't look, dare not look into those eyes so full of disappointment.

"Seven Hells, get out of the way!"  _Tyrion, oh, Tyrion_ , his undeserved beautiful brother, parting the crowd as he waddled urgently towards the arena floor. He pushed a sword across the ground towards Jaime that was too long and heavy to be his own.

Jaime slid his foot beneath the hilt of the blade, deftly flicked it up and snatched it from the air. He was rearmed as the Mountain - now having retrieved his own sword - began another lurching charge. Blood trailed behind him from his wounded lower limb, but he seemed not to feel it at all.

Jaime was slowed by the heaviness filling his chest, stealing the air from him. Clegane's fingertips snagged on his cloak and he was pulled off-balance, too stunned to steady himself in time. Another slap that loosened his teeth - he ran his tongue against them, feeling for gaps. None. Blood though. Plenty of that. It gushed from his split lips, down his chin, Lannister red to match his golden armour.

"Yield," the Mountain snarled, his hand clamped firmly around the back of Jaime's head - it would have been nothing to him to crush his skull in that instant.

"No."

Clegane's response was wordless, guttural rage. He went to backhand Jaime again, but he preempted this and stepped inward to Clegane's right - confident now that he would be reluctant to use his sword while he thought he could still force a yield. He would let the Mountain beat him to death before he uttered that word; a possibility that seemed to be coming true, despite his best efforts.

With his newly acquired proximity, Jaime wasted no time seeking the weak spot between Clegane's pauldron and chest-plate; he drove his blade deep and twisted viciously on the exit, taking satisfaction in the feel of it puncturing leather, sliding through flesh. He retreated hastily back, recognizing from the bloodcurdling bellow emanating from Clegane's great-helm that his chance to yield was over, there was to be no quarter for him now.

The Mountain began to lurch towards him for one final, fatal rush. Jaime let him come. The span of him was more enormous than even his height with that long and brutal sword outstretched. It was astonishing how quickly he gathered speed. And still, Jaime let him come.

Charging, closer -

_\- twenty feet ... fifteen_  -

How could something so big be so fast?!

-  _five ... three feet_ -

Jaime feinted.

He was displaced, felt the air shift and tremble as though he had sidestepped an avalanche.

The very ground quaked, the sound of plate colliding with eons-old stone booming, echoing, morphing into a silence so total that Jaime thought he'd been deafened.

Clouds of red dust billowed and swirled.

When it settled and the air was still, Jaime saw that he had won. The mountain was upright only by technicality; the spike on the head of his helm had embedded into one of the great stone columns. He had charged like a raging aurochs, and Jaime had been too swift for him. The substantial amount of Jaime's blood on the marble floor had been all the lubrication it took. Colliding into the building with all of that momentum seemed to have knocked the Mountain unconscious.

The Seven had smiled upon him. Jaime thought of Sansa Stark's flat promise to give prayer to the Old Gods, but not for long. He sought out Brienne amongst the pale-faced crowd and there she was. Gods be good, was there ever a pair of eyes so blue as that? From the way she was staring at him though, he probably didn't look very good himself.

A laboured groan came from Clegane and Jaime turned his attention back to his opponent. The floor was strewn with chunks of masonry, the pillar Clegane was embedded in would unquestionably need to be replaced. He took cautious steps, eager to avoid slipping on debris and further humiliating himself. Examining him, he saw that his helm was wedged deep and true within the rock. The rest of his body hung limply, awkwardly.

Jaime wanted to ask, smirking, if he yielded. But he hadn't the breath to. His lungs felt like amorphous pulp somewhere amongst the fragments of his ribs. It seemed the Mountain had defeated himself, but he would gladly take an embarrassing victory over an honourable defeat.

"I think that means I win," Jaime announced, looking around for confirmation.

"H-he's kn-knocked out, milord," a beet-red Podrick Payne called, presumably to Tywin so that he could give some sort of ruling.

"Then Ser Jaime is the victor," Tywin's response was clipped, "Brienne of Tarth is not guilty,"

It was to the sound of rising whispers and mocking titters that Jaime fell, no longer able to hold himself up. All at once the wounds his body had sustained made themselves known and the room was spinning, plunging into darkness. Oblivion claimed him, and with open arms he welcomed it.

* * *

.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: possible (minor?) spoilers about Tyrion's first marriage.

**Brienne**

"Brienne of Tarth is not guilty," the Hand of the King declared. But Brienne barely heard. She saw Jaime falling as if in slow motion and the entirety of the castle guard could not have kept her from him. She forced her way through the mob, immune to their snide whispers and horrified gasps.

He barely looked like Jaime at all anymore, so bloodied and beaten. Brienne curled her arms beneath his back and legs, lifting him, cradling him against her chest. She had carried him this way before, from the baths at Harrenhal, only then she had not felt nearly so naked.

She searched for a pair of eyes that weren't hostile; for someone who would tell her where to take him, where a maester could tend to him. Cersei was watching her. Brienne caught the Queen's gaze and was stunned by the coldness in her eyes. There was no trace of concern for Jaime. Did she bear no love for him, her own twin?

"Can you carry him?"

Brienne looked around for the voice, surprised. A tap on her knee drew her attention lower. Tyrion Lannister.

"Of course,"

"Then come,"

As they strode from the great hall Brienne expected someone to stop them, expected the guards to try and have her arrested for something else. She glanced down at Jaime frequently, praying for him flash that dazzling smile, to make some witty remark. But he did not. His head fell back and blood still ran from his wounds, splashing down onto the stone.

"Is he breathing?" Tyrion called back to her as they climbed a winding staircase. His voice conveyed a barely restrained panic.

Brienne listened and caught the shallow, jagged rasp of an inhale.

"Yes,"

Her arms were tired, her own breath coming hard after they had ascended the staircase. At least he hadn't been in his plate - she didn't think she could have borne his weight then.

"On the bed. I sent Pod to fetch the maester,"

Brienne didn't know where within the maze of towers and corridors they had ended up, nor did she care. She laid Jaime down where Tyrion told her to, and they worked together to remove his armour. She found the laxity of his body distressing as she loosened buckles and undid lacings. Unknotting the kerchief around his left arm she realised what it was - Tarth's colours.

"Oh Jaime," she whispered, her heart aching. She pushed his hair back from his brow tenderly, willing him to open his brilliant green eyes. So she could tell him how bloody stupid he'd been, and how grateful she was. "Why did you do it? It should have been my fight,"

"I'm sure you'll find need of your sword soon enough my Lady, from the way my sister looked today," Tyrion said, lighting a fire in the grate. Brienne spared no worry for the Queen. It was past due for her to play to her strengths; if she was accosted by sellswords in the yard she would relish in it.

"Pycelle you old goat, where are you?" Tyrion fumed as the kindling caught. Brienne could have helped but it would have meant leaving Jaime's side. She couldn't bear to do that, couldn't bear to take her eyes from his chest as she watched for every laboured breath.

It seemed they waited an eternity for the old maester, only for him to do nothing but mumble and dither when he arrived. Brienne held Jaime's head as Pycell put a glass bottle to his lips and tipped a potion into his mouth. She lifted him carefully as the maester wrapped bandages around his broken ribs, saying nothing at all. There was plenty of pity in his eyes, but it seemed to be for her rather than for Jaime. It would have irked, had she not been past the point of caring about such things.

"Liniment, for the bruises…" he said, handing her a pot of something oily. It had a pungent, herbal smell. Brienne's jaw ached with how hard she was clenching it. She thought of asking Pycelle why he was giving it to  _her_ to apply, but she didn't want to hear his answer. She wasn't that naive; she knew how it seemed. Why else would Jaime have done what he did for her?

"The next few hours will be vital," the maester intoned sagely.

"Why isn't he conscious? Is the head wound serious?" Tyrion asked, sounding sharp. Brienne detected acrimony between him and Pycelle.

The maester cleared his throat phlegmily, "No… The head wound seems… It's hard to say for definite, it could be the shock…"

"The  _shock_?" Tyrion repeated. Pycelle actually flinched from him. Brienne switched off to their conversation and began to wash the blood from Jaime's face. It was badly swollen now, his left eye already the colour of midnight.

Tyrion eventually persuaded her to leave his side if only to bathe and change from her grimy clothes. What if he wakes and I'm not there? She had wanted to protest, but Tyrion's mention of Sansa reminded her of the duties she was now free to fulfil. Their duties; hers and Jaime's, to the Stark girls.

"I'll send word when he wakes," Tyrion promised.

**:::**

The bedchamber Tyrion had guided her to when she had carried Jaime in her arms was in the same wing as the quarters he shared with his lady wife, as well as the modest rooms he'd set aside for Brienne herself. It seemed they had been occupied until recently.

"I already like you better than Bronn," Brienne turned and saw the girl, her ward, standing in the doorway, "though I suppose that's not saying much."

She was the ghost of her mother; long hair that shone copper in the sunlight, eyes as wide and blue as summer skies. But there was a sadness to her, an aura of melancholy.

"Lady Sansa," Brienne bowed, having never quite mastered the curtsy. She had imagined this moment since her oath to Catelyn Stark, all those moons past. And now it was here, and all she could think of was  _Gods, don't let him die, don't let the Kingslayer die._

"I am sorry that I was not there to defend your mother," Brienne said gravely. Sansa's gaze darted around suspiciously and she stepped forward, closing the door behind her to protect against eavesdroppers.

"I'm not. You'd only have died too,"

"Did your husband tell you of my oath?" Brienne asked, and saw Sansa wince at the word husband.

"He said you're loyal to my mother, that you swore to her that you would take me home,"

Brienne smiled, "Yes,"

"He said that the K- that Ser Jaime swore to let me go back to Winterfell once he got to King's Landing," Sansa corrected herself quickly, but Brienne was reminded of how Tyrion had described her; a wolf in the lion's den.

"I am glad he defeated Gregor Clegane," courtesy made her rigid when she said this, made it impossible to gauge her sincerity. Brienne bit her tongue against the urge to insist upon his honour. It wouldn't do to paint herself in red and gold to Sansa. "If only because it meant you were set free."

"I made myself clear to Lord Tyrion," Brienne told the girl, "I serve House Stark, my oath is to Lady Catelyn. Not House Lannister,"

She saw that Sansa badly wanted to trust her, was desperate for an ally, but had been so long a captive here that she could not believe Brienne on her word alone. It would have been foolish of her not to suspect that Brienne was Tyrion's agent over her own, but Brienne would win her faith with her actions.

She knew little of Tyrion Lannister, but in his address to her in her cell he seemed to care sincerely for his young wife, indeed to have her best interests at heart. For as long as that remained true, she would have no problem with following his directions.

Sansa showed Brienne the clothes that had been made for her, telling her that blues and sea-greens best suited her complexion and brought out her eyes. It was strange but not entirely unbearable to listen to the girl give her reasonings and occasions for each outfit; she spoke not with the air of one who pities, but with the enthusiasm of a girl who has lacked in female company, and sorely missed it. Brienne was hardly feminine, but it seemed she suited better than Tyrion. Brienne thanked her for the garments, though her eyes lingered on the rose-and-azure plate armour that was mounted on a stand over the dresser, and she knew it was the only tailoring she would ever feel comfortable in.

"Your- Tyrion told me about Joffrey ordering his Kingsguard to hurt you," Brienne said softly, quickly thinking better of referring to him as her husband again - she was trying to gain her confidence after all.

Sansa's gaze was cool and guarded, hinting at the freshness of those scars.

"I want the names of these men. You must point them out to me," she added, "and I really must get a sword to go with that set of armour."

**:::**

After Tyrion returned to take a late supper with Sansa, Brienne made her excuses to leave. She hadn't eaten, which Tyrion had noted with aggravation, but she couldn't bear the thought of food. She was anxious to see Jaime.

"Has he woken at all, maester Pycell?" she queried, slipping into the bedchamber.

The old man peered up at her myopically from Jaime's bedside.

"No change since you were here last," he said, "but then it has only been a few hours. May I make a potion for you, my lady? Some honeyed milk with a drop of essence of nightshade should give a restful sleep..."

She declined his offer.

"He seems no worse, at least," Pycell said, jowls quivering. "I was about to re-dress the wounds..."

"Let me," Brienne insisted. Pycell seemed to consider the idea a while before he consented and shuffled off to leave her to the task.

Jaime's broken helm had wedged deep into his scalp; they had shorn off his golden hair to better see the wound. It had been the source of most of the blood. Brienne knew scalp wounds bled the worst, but it was of little reassurance. Jaime hadn't woken up yet, after all. There was another cut through his eyebrow, now the swelling had gone down some it was possible to tell it would more than likely leave a scar.

His face was so bruised. Carefully, Brienne used a washcloth against his feverish skin. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, but there was a worrisome crackling sound with each intake of his breath.

"This will never happen again," she promised him with fierce tenderness. The next time any man thought to raise his blade against Jaime Lannister, he would have to go through her first. As would every man foolish enough to try again after that.

Brienne cradled Jaime's head gently and washed his hair, the water in the basin turning bloody-pink despite the care she took.

"Come back to me, Jaime," she murmured, fingertips tracing the strong line of his jaw, bristly with beard growth. His eyelids were still, as though wherever he was, he did not even dream.

The door swung open and Tywin Lannister entered without knocking. Brienne brushed the wetness from her cheeks abruptly at the intrusion.

The older man's gaze was hard and green as malachite, and she could not tell if he was surprised to see her there or merely irritated.

"Lord Hand," she greeted tersely, standing to go, to leave Tywin alone with his son.

"Brienne," he acknowledged her coolly. Before she could pass by him he held out an arm to stop her.

"Your influence over my son has been quite profound," he said it in a way that made Brienne have to resist from flinching, but even so she wasn't sure if it was meant as a rebuke or a compliment. Of course, he was furious with Jaime, but she could not believe he was blind to what went on right beneath his nose; not Tywin Lannister. Jaime's behaviour of late was suggesting the end of his...  _over-attachment_ to his sister, and surely he was glad about that.

"At least it's you here instead of Cersei," he remarked sharply, as if reading her mind. Brienne's eyes went wide and she floundered for something to say in answer.

"Pycelle says he hasn't awoken at all," she decided a change of subject was in the best interests of all parties, lest she blurt out professions of love and admiration for his firstborn in an attempt to justify her presence there alone with him.

Brienne noticed a sword in Tywin's hand, sheathed in sumptuous red leather, a golden lions-head for a pommel with rubies set into its eyes. Tywin followed her glance but said nothing, daring her to question him. She held for a moment, considering the likelihood that he had brought it to slit Jaime's throat with.

"Anyone who seeks to bring harm to him shall answer to me," she warned. Tywin raised a brow at her, looking almost amused at her declaration.

"The harm he has befallen thus far has been down to you," he said icily. That time Brienne  _did_  flinch.

"Leave us."

She did not require being told twice.

:::

* * *

**Jaime**

Those eyes, those astonishing blue eyes, the last thing he'd seen before the ground rushed up to meet him. Then darkness; milk of the poppy; fever-dreams of violent black seas. It came back to him in shards, like glass. His father. His father had come to him.

_"You're a fool. The biggest embarrassment in a Kingsguard full of embarrassments. And you're lucky you're not dead, though there's still time for that."_

He had no words for Tywin, even if he'd had breath to carry them.

_"I had this forged. valyrian steel. It was supposed to be yours - for the good it will do you now."_

Valyrian steel; no amount of gold had been able to procure such a thing for their House before. It was paid for in blood, then. Jaime's eyelids had been too heavy to lift.

_"Do you know what you've done? You've shown weakness. You've made House Lannister look weak. You're a laughing stock. You'll be lucky if Joffrey doesn't strip you of your cloak like he did Selmy. He will not spare you just for the blood you share. Go back to the Rock and wrest back some respect through rule instead of relying on showing off with swordsmanship."_

Jaime had found his voice, hoarse but clear;  _"is she free? Safe?"_

He hadn't needed to open his eyes to detect his father's fury, his contempt. It was palpable. But it didn't matter, none of it mattered. The only thing that did was her.

_"Yes."_

**:::**

"Jaime?"  _Tyrion_.

His eye was swollen shut, he couldn't see his brother's face clearly. Jaime was relieved that he was here; he had to make his deathbed confessions. The darkness that he had found so comforting in the depths of his agony had become frightening, swallowing him without warning. Each breath felt like his last. He closed his eyes and saw the black pits of eyes, deep in the cavern of an iron greathelm, breath steaming from the slits in the visor like some mythical beast. Only it wasn't Clegane this time within the monstrous armour, no - it was the Stranger come to claim him.

"Jaime, you bloody fool," Tyrion scolded, "what were you thinking, goading him? What were you thinking fighting him in the first place?"

But the words came hard, pained. Tyrion didn't sound angry as much as he sounded sad. A skin of water was pressed to his lips and Jaime fought to swallow, tasting his blood as the cuts in his lips cracked and wept.

"I have to tell you," he tried to speak but anything more than shallow breaths sent a lance of pain through his chest from the left, where Clegane's gauntleted fists had worked over his ribs.

"Not now, whatever it is, it can wait," his brother replied, but the lightness was forced.

"Shall I bring the maester?"

"Please, my lady, yes,"

Footsteps fading into the distance.

"Tyrion, listen," Jaime implored, trying to raise himself into a sitting position and wincing at the discomfort it brought. Explosions of light danced before his eyes at the exertion.

"Jaime for goodness sake-"

"Tysha," as soon as he uttered her name, Tyrion fell silent.

"What about her?" he asked quietly.

Jaime gritted his teeth and forced himself to speak, not just struggling against the pain, but knowing that what he was about to tell Tyrion would break his heart. Even if he lived, his brother may never speak to him again. But there was a chance that he would not, and he could not bear the weight of this secret any longer. The thought of taking it to the grave made him sick.

"I lied," he confessed in a whisper. His eyes were suddenly wet, his throat tight. Tyrion's face was a mask.

"What did you lie about?" He sounded cold and not like Tyrion at all. Tysha, the sweet orphaned crofter's daughter, the girl who Tyrion had loved first. The girl who had loved him back, all along.

"She was never a whore," Jaime's voice trembled as he spoke. Tyrion jumped down from the chair and for a moment it seemed to Jaime that he would strike him. If it would make Tyrion feel any less hurt, he would welcome it.

"I didn't know - I didn't know what he was going to do. Father told me to tell you I paid her-"

Tyrion held his hand up, gesturing for him to be quiet. Jaime swallowed past the lump in his throat and pushed on,

"I can't ask your forgiveness. Not now, not like this," it was too cruel to force that from his little brother. It seemed Tyrion would not have offered his forgiveness anyway; he was shaking his head, his mismatched eyes ablaze with hatred.

"I'm sorry Tyrion," he whispered. His brother could not stand to look at him any longer. He left without a word, and darkness swallowed Jaime once more.

**:::**

"You saved me," Brienne's voice came to him from the black, musical and sweet, "you saved me again,"

"We saved each other," he replied, his own voice sounding thin and rough - the voice of a man ten days lost in the Red Wastes.

"Jaime? You're awake?"

He had startled her. Tyrion must not have told her he had woken. It hurt Jaime's heart to think of, and the expression of honest, furious hatred on his brother's face chilled his blood to remember.

"I'll fetch the maester,"

"No," he murmured, trying to reach for her. She was all he had now. A few seconds passed and the lamp burned brighter, illuminating the bedchamber. Her face was a welcome sight. She put down the light and he heard the sound of water being wrung out of a cloth.

"Your fever is breaking at last," she told him, pressing the rag to his skin.

"Stay with me," he croaked.

"I won't leave you,"

The fierceness in her words moved him, and she was so strong as she took his only hand in both of hers.

"Are you in pain?" she asked, mistaking the moisture that was pricking his eyes, threatening to spill over. "I'll get Pycelle-"

"No," he insisted, "I don't want anything for it,"

Jaime turned his head carefully, seeking to rest his gaze upon her a while. Her attire glimmered in the lamplight; masterfully wrought plate, Tarth's house sigil on the breast.

"Tyrion brought it to me, when he came to me in the dungeons," she explained, reading his intrigue.

"Tyrion?" he murmured. Was his brother still on his side, then, despite the secret that had grown rancid between them, a secret Jaime had never understood the true weight of before now? He tried to think of how he would feel if someone were to do to Brienne what Tywin -  _what Lannister men_ \- had done to Tyrion's beloved. It sickened him. "How is he?"

"What's happened between you?" Brienne asked. Jaime closed his eyes. She was too good of heart;he was afraid that if she knew she would be repulsed. He couldn't tell her of Tysha anymore than he could tell her of how he'd crippled the Stark boy. He hadn't known that Tywin would give the girl to his guardsmen - that he would force Tyrion to watch as they took their pleasure from her.  _He hadn't known._  Somehow that didn't seem a good enough excuse.

"It's none of your concern,"

She recoiled at his tone, her hands slipping away from his. He mourned the loss of her touch immediately.

"Brienne-"

"You need to rest," she forced a smile, and he could tell she was about to make her excuses to leave. Conscious for less than ten minutes and he'd managed to chase her away. It had to be a new record.

"You said you weren't going to leave me," he pouted, by no means above exploiting his current sorry state to gain in her affections. It stilled her, as he knew it would.

"Help me sit up?"

She obliged, curling an arm around his waist and plumping the pillow behind him. He caught the scent of sweet roses as she leaned close, and lifted his hand to lay his palm against her neck.

"It's becoming a habit of mine, rescuing my Maiden," he mused, running his thumb across a ridge of scarring. Echoes of the bear pit.

"You were reckless," she scolded him, but there was no anger in it, and she didn't pull away from his touch.

"Clegane is my father's dog. He'd savage you for table scraps, but he knew if he killed me he'd be put down,"

"That doesn't seem very honourable," she ran absent fingers through his cropped hair. It drew his attention and he copied her movement, noticing it for the first time.

"Neither does shaving a man while he's unconscious," he complained, half-jestingly.

"I like it," Brienne said, and he enjoyed the way she blushed at the confession. "It makes you look more like Jaime,"

_And less like Cersei._.

"I  _am_ Jaime," he pretended to look concerned, "Are you sure I'm the one with the head injury, wench?"

There it was, that crooked smile that so melted his heart. He'd fight bears and Mountains and whatever else, just to glimpse it.

"Kiss me," it was a command yet still somehow half a plea, and he saw her wondering whether he was joking, "I believe that's the going rate for the rescue of a Maiden, is it not?"

Brienne's lips were warm and chapped and smiling as she pressed them lightly to his own, over-careful not to hurt him. He cupped his hand around the back of her neck, tangling his fingers through hair as dry and pale as wheat. It was almost chaste, the way she kissed him. It brought memories of rain and smoke, of their first kiss, of Brindlewood.

**:::**


End file.
